The House of Flora

   This isn't my life. My life was supposed to be exponentially larger than this. There is a sad street that I know of. It used to be miraculous. The pavement is begging for revival. I am all the lonely footsteps.  All the dampness aches for horizons...all the ones I took for granted. And my dream is hers, and my dream is hers, and my dream is the next person's. I am quite small. And in the scheme of things, just flesh; just bones. I will not leave behind any sort of legacy. I will leave behind hat boxes, and marked up Bibles. I don't know if I'll have moved out West yet. I don't know if I'll have found love. I pray all the pretty prayers. I practice list-making. And I tumble on alone...like a rambling song.