sometimes when I look back on a time, I question if that time and place has wondered where I have been so long. Did the trees not grow any taller, or maybe the stream stood still since then.. No clay banks fell into the sides leaving larger barriers for tadpoles to grow. Seems when you go back everything seems smaller, that field of green between the two woods once was a good run, and then some more till you couldn’t run no more. Now there is only a small patch of field, and walking gets you to the big oak in the same time as the running did. Place holds space one time only, and for those that stop and reverse to finish that game of turning round . That play as child, that session of innocence lost. Find themselves orphaned from it all. Foreign to love requited, Immigrants by force to find time in new lands, new spaces of rest. f.messina 1.18.20