This cold black night's unbeautiful and eerie; dead.
Wind penetrates the pines to chill my bones instead.
But Northreach fails to captivate my mind. I'm bound
within my thoughts- the sole idea that this ground,
mere dirt, contributed to who he is, he said.

Just knowing this same forest- here!- is where he fled
to get away... it calms me more than any bed,
my father's ground.

And maybe my load mirrors burdens he once shed
among these pines. Perhaps he found some hope, a shred
of peace like I do now atop this sad dirt mound.
I wonder if we're not so unalike? Newfound
thoughts make't essential for this daughter now to tread
her father's ground.


Penned by my hand on the 21st of Mayan, in the year 532 AF.