26 August 2011 The tree in the over-grown lane has a hollow in it due North where the moss.

I place secrets inside this dark space where squirrels and ravens fight for the shadow-filled hole every Spring. Once I put a poem in it I didnt write for my husband, but to a girl with blonde hair, a nimbus around her face. Another time I dropped a string of old cream-colored pearls, its metal clasp the shape of a heart into the crevice; and just sixteen days ago I let fall into the deep dark silence my right breast that the doctors said was cancer-filled right in the place where I once made milk for my babies and this is the only time so far I have cried long for its loss, though I whisper the rhythm of the blood pumping where once milk and an old nursery song.