…and of the windborn seeds that weary come to rest upon a plot of land to name it for their own. Seeds like pioneers with hopes of California gold or needs to settle in the fertile soils of Idaho and grow potatoes. Greedy white man weeds that overtake the land. Or maybe just the opposite, the red man wandering, searching for the last dusts of his native home.
I’ll work outside all day today, breathing air that’s free. Maybe though, since garden soil should not be tracked inside the house, I’ll bring the laptop out to write should inspiration hit or to satisfy a curiousity of what’s hit others.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology