I don’t know for sure, But somewhere along Franconia’s notch, imagine the crisp 65 Fahrenheit air and calm, sun filled shadiness it exists in.
Somewhere along franconia’s notch I imagine there’s a perfect little spot.
Unknown, but resonant none the other.
It’s platitude unbecoming.
Its magnitude revealed.
Unveiled in twos.
Unpinned from our minds by the 4 square spreadsheet that is time.
Sometimes I listen to phish’s pebbles and marbles and sit back to reflect,
Wondering if indeed the marble in the sand came from my hand.