I don't know how else to put this. We are so fragile, but we're as tough as nails. We soak in baths and listen to Icelandic music, but we drink our whiskey straight and like our coffee black. Here's to hoping when our hair gets pulled our scalp will tough it out. In the privacy of your own mind is where I want to spend some time. Not too much time. Just a few seconds, enough to glimpse the expanse of what you hope for, what you are willing to give up, what you can't let go. I want to see you as the geological wonder that I know you are. Or are you an onion?
From which part of the earth do you rise? And where will you plant your roots? I'd travel to find you if I could just find the door. Maybe you are the door. Maybe I need to walk through you instead of with you. They say that in an earthquake the safest place to stand is under a door frame. The house may collapse, but you'll be left as tall as a naked tree in the middle of the loneliest winter. (Do your hinges comply with fire codes? I have a match and I'm ready to strike.)
And the whole forest existed just to create your frame.
So do the roots even matter? What's the matter? Here. Let me hold you.