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Potted

I can’t get the moors out of my skin - me the wild bog asphodel now planted in a pot in tame Ohio. The moors grind you into peat and gritstone, they keep walking you around while the open spaces sweep you dry, even in the downpouring sky, even under the bitter grasp of banshee winds. Who would lament the bone hammering miles trudged between hags and toughs, the flat featureless, slog over those high acres of heather and mist? Yet I find myself to be this longing, to be this itch to find my own wilderness here in suburbia. You may find me now strolling along the grassy edges of Mall parking lots, spot my shadow climbing a sunny day; my head bent into an imaginary horizon, eyes following paths that only shaggy sheep can trace.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021




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