this earth, it is cursed.

You know I have always been exasperated with the growing presences of vermin surrounding me; just as a leaf will outgrow its iron-grip branch and drop onto equally old and tired lawn. I don't doubt the reason for my nausea is an overdose of weeping flowers, comforting grass and solid roots; roots that will stick to one surface only. You are rooted for all time. This is not where the seed is to drop; there is no dog's back to travel from, into another land. I am none of these things; I watch from the window as rain slathers the gardens in never-ending tears; as if it knows the sadness seeping beneath the earth. The cup of tea is rather warm in my clasp; as Myra's face on the front is equally hot. I will never attach myself to a single degree and that degree only. I was uprooted long ago, when bulldozers shook me from my wake. "GO!" they said, "this is not the land or place for you. You were born for larger fields, meadow's grace and quickened pace."
I have long since moved on; the flowers, trees and grass stayed planted in their place. This is the yard that always cries. I see bent flowers carrying dewdrop curses everyday. They want the attention of the trees; the elders of their generation. Alas, the trees will give it to them. Enough that the flowers will surely blossom again the next day. Tired lawns poison the earth. I am as sure of this as I'm sure the other half of me rests across the blanket of the ocean; calls to me. Sweet harp of salty air and fixated gaze; blacksmith's cradle and lantern's kiss. And I cannot light this fire without a match.