CARRIE OLIVIA ADAMS

 

 

                                     



FROM DAUGHTER OF A TREE FARM

 

 

For a long time, I did not know better. For a long time, I did not know anything else. The daughter of a tree farm, I could not see the road. When someone said: you are what I need. I let the weight be the mass of me. Id leave the trees and my arms would be full of scrapes that I never felt happening. I moved deeper into their very straight lines, into the branches. Their order brushed against my shoulders as I ran. And it was all sap and itch; I was marked. And when you said: you. Well, what did I know? I listened. And the thing about the farm is that its quiet.

 

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Slate. The circumstances under which, and through which, we grow. Readers may consider that which bleeds and heals, elaborate. But the question of going away roused the most passionate interest. Due, no doubt, to the disciples and opponents watching the will [and the windy gestures] of the going away from the hillside. All of us, a few short appendices, points, and persons.


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My age is not in doubt. I had not yet ruined all I had to ruin to convince myself. In the wood rings, there is an age of belief. I could run into the pines and meet you there. The most free thing was still a full moon and a sky-lit gravel road. Halter and bit, I was yet bound by a strategic reticence.

I shall hardly cut my family. It is unknown whether I fulfilled my promise. The most difficult thing is the will to fix the moment from devotion. I am continually wondering whether I am doing it properly. And whether tomorrow, pardon.


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The pity smell of fresh cut wood followed by the taste of a deers block. I should say that the tree farm failed. Or lost interest. Today, it must be a football field of forest surrounded by hay. Within, its own ecosystem of creatures. One summer it must have seemed like a thing to do. To focus on the building of a grid with string. To mark each square with little colored flags and then a little tree, one by one by one. What else was there to do?



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Be so good as you. You are not quite satisfied. To which I reply: you want more facts. There is a bit of Alice in everything. If I had a daughter, I would tell her to always know what kind of story shes in. But I lived in my. And loved it when it was dark. I only vaguely realized I was in the winter of my investigations with regard, new instructions required. Me, at the fortune, belonging by fire. Remember when wed set the woods on fire?

 

                                                                                                      

 

      

 

                                   

 

 


TYPO 20