The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
The summers aren't so lonely on Plum Island.
It's me, the plum trees, the plum birds,
and the occasional plum song.
Sometimes I miss my studio apartment in the city,
my rainy bay windows, my boots with the hole
in the heel, my mug that says You Are Awesome
in big black letters like a newspaper clipping.
But I don't get the newspaper on Plum Island.
I just get a bit of plum sun, lay down
on the plum sand, write in big plum letters
You Are Awesome and watch the plum waves
wash the words away.
It's me, the plum trees, the plum birds,
and the occasional plum song.
Sometimes I miss my studio apartment in the city,
my rainy bay windows, my boots with the hole
in the heel, my mug that says You Are Awesome
in big black letters like a newspaper clipping.
But I don't get the newspaper on Plum Island.
I just get a bit of plum sun, lay down
on the plum sand, write in big plum letters
You Are Awesome and watch the plum waves
wash the words away.