Place was everything. She wrapped her surroundings around herself like a cloak, wore the color of the forest in her eyes and felt the grim expression of the cracked mountains play at the corners of her mouth. Place was everything. Taking her from it was detaching her from her life source. When she sunk into nature, she was a tree, roots growing healthier, stronger, as they sank. The vibrance of the wildflowers was infectious. She couldn’t help it hovering upon her cheeks.
Place was everything. When she stood on the street corner, the cement was a cold coat cast upon her shoulders. She sank, melted into its grayness. Apathy was infectious. She could not prevent that numbness that spread across her being. Place was everything. She wrapped her surroundings around herself like a cloak. It was a coat. It was a way to cope. She scorned the memory of the wildflowers. She traded in the mountains for human edifices. She hollowed out her laugh, in a search for humor that ended only in cold irony.
Place was everything. She was the surface of the lake. She was the car window. She was the reflection of her surroundings. She could not help it.
Place is everything. She wraps her surroundings around herself like a cloak. The damp earth is comfortable; it whispers to her that she may rest. Her laugh will be replenished, like a well after the rain. Encased in the earth, at last she is free. Her life has been a shattered mirror. Here there is nothing to reflect. Here she simply is.
Place is everything, death is freedom. At last naked she sinks back into her own Eden.