The field plowed years ago.  Like a clean slate, a new beginning.  This was the place of constant change.  Nothing old lasted it wasn't supposed to.  An Oak tree made thick dark shade.  A lovely place to rest.  In the open field the sun coaxed the seeds to split open and find their purpose.  Locked inside buried.  The growth in both directions. Upwards and downwards.  Whatever the seed would become was quick and temporary.  The growing season would  turn under what was left of the plant.  The tradition was the constant change.  Not a place for long term plans. The growth quick and temporary.


It's not what you think it's what you believe.  Patricia '96