The Final Washout

He washed the final smell of his Alabama home from the last comforter

from the last divide of things.

It was now the Fall before the Winter.

It was the second winter he’d known there.

He couldn’t remember having needed so many blankets.

Maybe she really never did get cold.

But, he told her:

I’ll never be a forest.

Trees and plants:not for him.

Time in the forest moves strangely.

When she’d first shown the long lasting puddle

on the side of the trail,

She said:

It’s Black Pool. Notice how nothing really floats and nothing really sinks here? It suspends, I guess.

He thought he heard her say something else.

Author: writtencasey

I am fascinated by the scientific endeavor and I read about or engage with those processes as much as possible. I am a compulsive reader and writer. With a background in anthropology and as an arm-chair/backyard scientist, I hope to improve my writing skills and learn about any areas of weakness or misunderstanding in my analytic skills. I am excited to share. Thank you for spending time here. Please reach out if you are so inclined. I'd be excited to hear from you.

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