we live in a place of three hundred grasses. each crackling step scatters a thousand blooms, and burs and spikes and seeds. each golden inch holds exponential treasures and each field is a dry galaxy of dead greenery.
now that it's expired and dried the grassland separates into hundreds of different harvest flowers and every walk in the woods crunches with the sound of crushed bouquets underfoot. surely if dry was a smell it would be the smell of the hills in september.
now that it's expired and dried the grassland separates into hundreds of different harvest flowers and every walk in the woods crunches with the sound of crushed bouquets underfoot. surely if dry was a smell it would be the smell of the hills in september.
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