i have become used to manicured gardens
uniform lawns
clinical green with a side of plastic sheen.
here, roots extend and envelop and
i sink into the ground, i melt
i trace the footsteps of those who came before me.
vines, winding and entangling
trees, murmuring
no one comes to prune and trim and mute and so
leaves fall.

the world here colours outside the lines
grows outwards and upwards and around.
leaves fall, and fall.