Your voice had painted this place for years—
And finally, we’re here,
On the banks of the Grand Ronde.
You were right.
No words can capture this.
No postcards, either.
These autumn winds carry stories older than us.
I feel so very small here, caught in the gentle rhythm,
And praying that my life,
Back in the city—
Might finally be over.

Ezy Reading is out every month...