There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.
Sylvia Plath, from her poem Wuthering Heights
image: Study in Gray, Oak Grove Cemetery and Arboretum, Delaware, Ohio, October 2011