Writing
Photographing


Seasons of Violet.We called her Violet, and she was. We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branchesSeasons of Violet.
Like welcoming arms Would snap in two And we'd cascade to the earthy ground Carpeted with golden and red and orange And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart That she were a leaf as well That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place In arms that would not break In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.
We called her Violet, and she was. And with th
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...wait, did I just type that out loud?
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