multiflora every which way you look.
The smell of ash and burnt promises,
that is the place where stories are told.
Let us return to our rock
and a hard place,
lest it be just another glacial erratic.
Let those tides turn on their own,
there's no reason to trip up a fall.
Let your heart turn on its own,
there's barely reason to trip, at all.
Steps, amongst moss and rocks
and pictures never forgotten
though we can see their ghosts
blowing in our shadows.
Returning, like back to its sender,
here's the last letter I write to you.
Let those tides turn on their own,
there's no reason to trip up a fall.
Let your heart turn on its own,
there's barely reason to trip, at all.
