Pushing, pulling, touching on the edges of borders, of boundaries, I thought my lines were clean.
I scout the limits wrong. I don’t exactly destroy margins, but I trample bluebells, camellias, narcissi, and hyacinths - beauty which should be tended. I did not see them under me or beside me or in front of me.
I saw green just across the line.
Softness, not the dry, brown sticks stabbing into my feet. In my eagerness I fell. Dirt in my nails, scratches on my elbows, the world spins. I sit. I wait. Standing is foreign. The flowers are frightening. I cannot see the green from here.