lies are where the truth starts to win, the whole of it pushed down only to rise because goodness stays pure despite what those who can’t handle freedom may say or wish away.

bare crooked seasons

the thing about winter is not the cold but the bare brave beauty that comes from the letting go of brown dead detritus –a big word for the lost– determined to resurrect life from the dark. Shine, then, crooked branches, reaching sunward with hope always of spring, and unafraid of the changing seasons.

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