moon
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The forest becomes a sanctuary where grief, rosemary, moonlight, and survival all speak the same old language.
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When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.
A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
The forest becomes a sanctuary where grief, rosemary, moonlight, and survival all speak the same old language.
When sleep would not come, she wrapped two tired daughters into a stroller and carried their exhaustion outside to meet the moon.