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He is part of her. Everywhere. 

She carries him down the stairs in the morning, right in her heart he nests, under the roses on her pajamas. He’s tangled in her bedsheets and buried in dawn. Sometimes, she wakes up having seen him all night. Most of all, he is a part of her son. 

She carries him everywhere, too.


When morning comes, everything the sun touches is mine. 

Often times, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Soft-faced and looking outside at the late morning sun, smelling lemons and the honey of the Tilia tree.


I’ve got roots. 

They wrap around my toes and tug at my ankles. 
They pull me into deep, dark corners that feel like
an October rain. The rocks I’ve hidden in dirt, 
they find them. They wrap around their toes and ankles, too. Nothing can get away from my roots. 
They hold me, all slender branches and heinous growth. 
They hold me against the wind and close to the sky, 
pushing - nearly propelling me north. 

I would be nothing without my roots.