I spoke to the old lady again.

She told me, “don’t be sorry, be lost in your longing”.

Sweat streams clear clays in ways only the hardest workers can muster,

and water never felt as good as bathing in that cool brook by the old mill,

with the reed covered ponds

and a palette of tropically tinged songbirds seeking seeds to feed their hungers,

thirsting for springs and their sweetness.

She says, “Stay focused. Back to your claybed. Dig until you see sunlight”.

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