Fall 2021
the green interlude McKenna Casey It’s been raining for days and everything is either drowning or growing, green or dead. There is so much green. Our souls are grown in the ground, you know. They have roots. When we touch them, If we could, Our hands would come back grass-stained, our fingernails packed with dirt. I can only imagine what they’d taste like. All different things, maybe. Rain and wild mint. Thunder and lightning, leaves and bark. Mud. Clementines. Our souls are not grown in a garden. Our yards are supposed to have clover. Dig your fingers into the soil, loose from the storm. Don’t you feel it? That you’ve been here before? Go out into the rain. Tilt your head back, open your mouth. Take communion. This storm is a hurricane somewhere further down the coast. On the radar this rain is green. There are souls growing in the woods behind my house. Everything is growing, dead or alive, even you, even me, everything, evergreen, everything.
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