A yard either, made of scraps of many times when we dream of a better home.
This patio, concrete changes color when wet and when dry, watered by the hose, battered by the rain. The imperfections of the soil, the grass growing between some cracks, logs cut from a vine that did not survive my four years. chairs, tables, gear, toys.
Life is the sun in the courtyard which I look but rarely coming in with his seriousness and his shadow through the window of my room. Somehow I
lives, reminds me that there is something out.
speak of children's playgrounds, houses in suburbs, which we passed to visit only on occasion.
Life is also a patio, yet vine, no tank, no washing basin.
And the afternoon sounds like:
"I have a handful of memories of sand
between the toes in the sand you you ..."
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