Fred the Ficus

could it be?

could it be that poetry is the language of the trees? she thought. so i am fred and i am hers and she is mine seeking the sacred and divine places down highways at shores of lakes way up and down as we outgrew those old pots together her and i.

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make it so

the week began and once again i missed him. in the dead of winter whilst i watched him wilt, from lack of sun upon his leaves, and to the kitchen window he was moved to that lovely little inside garden room. yet i missed him my lovely Ficus Fred long we have journeyed, just him and […]

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