as an ending

the world of extra words slid from mountaintop with limestone and snow, fretting human numbers and the end of Christmas. each Christmas creates a torment controlled by colours that stretch into the past. that past is mountain too, greener than grass but still pliant. we wish for more, the world of staying put or pressing flowers or still in memory. love it, as you write more indications. try a little sweetness then watch. even now, this beginning of study, this exercised day.