When we were young we used to follow the old
road. It was swollen, pregnant like our minds.
Did you want to try that other path?
If so, you never spoke up. And I never slowed down.
The trees aren't as green as they used to be.
They're matured, more concerned with reaching the
Sky, than with observing the ground.
Producing a canopy, not hiding beneath one.
The little old lady, at the end of this road;
She died a couple years past.
That famous glint in her eyes withered with the
Last seeds of Spring. She wasn't much after that.
