whilst my heart belongs to the sycamore tree, there is just something about the silvery scars of the silver birch that captures my heart. add moss and i am thoroughly captured.
when i have lived enough, and i have quietly stepped into the next room, don’t mourn me with stone or marble markers, engraved with words that really don’t say much about me. she was sent, and she was called back. no. turn me into ashes and plant me, with a tree. let me be dust.... Continue Reading →