There is an oak tree that makes up stories just for me. And, I want to believe that means I matter. Wonder can come from want, can grow like wildflowers in my mind.

I get distracted in the looking, maybe some things want to be missed more than they want to be found.

My heart is the kind of clock I can count on keeping cadence with conversation tick tick ticking a little quicker when I get pulled out of my monotony.