American-poet

Every night is spent the same way; sitting in the rich soil stretching my weary roots to see how deep they will go and every night they reach the same depth, only 30 feet or so. It gets rather disappointing you know, not ever being able to reach the depths I long for. I stretch my branches high and attempt to touch the cosmos, but every night is the same, I am too little to get there and I am not growing anymore. The nights are generally quiet and soft, except the nights that she comes. Those nights are the best, the wind stirs about as it carries her from some distant place.  Her hair is wild as the air sets her down in my fields but her fa