They're cutting down the woods
again to build another house upon the hill that overlooks the river valley.
They haven't reached the woods I
see directly out my window but I know it's just a matter of the timing.
The world is always changing and we
love it better in the memory than the one we see before us changing.
A memory is a work of art creating
something out of nothing freezing form from endless transformation.
The past is always being lived
again because the past that's in our memory always changes with our living.
Today the woods are lush and green
and yesterday the woods were empty and tomorrow never really happens.
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