For a Spell

At last.

The beautiful retreat.

We left them standing at first frost,
but the little ones have grown
hungry for home.

Somehow,
we must contrive to carry them over.

Let the others search for treasure —
the endless alone,
my endless pleasure —

and always to be within —
bounded by wood,
by word and wall,
by waxing sun —
it’s there you’ll find
the truest friend.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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