X.

. When distant winds Find their course upon This land, through the trees, To My lungs, With Rumours of  Joy  Or Sadness Or their intermingling  Let me not  Let me not  forget my privilege.

/

/To me it is not either good or bad, but good and bad, the precursor to all things, the black soil from which all things spring. And today would I reap only beauty…from the seeds of Earth’s lovely black soul/