In the Grove

Prose written by Greg on Monday 20, June 2022

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Rooted in a memory

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Beneath the grove of willow trees sheltered from the August swell where the suck and melt dare not follow, I lay nestled in a bed of clover gazing upon the canopy of sleepy branches. Cooled by the earth and the rustling, damp breeze which caused the longest leaves to dance and sway above me, I was pulled into a deep rest. Feeling as if my lungs spread out like roots beneath me, stretching out below the golden green umbrella. Palms turned toward the sky as dappled sunlight tickle my skin. The pulse slowed and worry and pain became mulch for the alfalfa. And the truth was laid bare, as if time had forgotten us there in the grove
   

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