You know you can’t stay long enough for the space to grow normal. You know the worst thing you could do is acclimate so much to its warmth that its distinctness stops being identifiable… You could never take access to that kind of wonder away from yourself. Not willingly.
A letter from the country
The vines hang however on the trellis
Since no hand arranges them
Their tangle stays unmanaged
And their twigs invade the vegetable garden
And the rags dry with the clothing
And the orchard will not conform to the property line
Four weeks of hard work wasted
Clearing bramble, raking leaves
Hell, take it: I'll sit here
Satisfied, with the stars for company.