The Stolid mass of macrocarpa trees.
Massive bowels, evidence of time.
Surround our first abode,
Stand out in my mind.
Witch like tentacles, hang broodingly,
Over the dilapidated farm house.
Fleur and I stand,
Small beneath their boughs
Meditating on the winding paths,
Of our short lives. Fleur not yet twenty.
What quirk of fate.
Brought us here.
Is this a portend of a solid future.
Or will the winds of life,
Blow us about, like switches in a gale.
We feel the strength of the stolid mass around us
Oh for wisdom.