| one of the ruts my mother has worn in the wall to wall that keeps the cold in the basement from infiltrating APT E-1 at Rose Court in the shadow of the municipal range. My mother never dreamed me So I dreamed myself into her domain. Once when the fog had lifted in the Cairngorms these same ruts were the paths leading to the summit of Ben Nevis. Worn by the mountain sheep ascending in search of abundance. Rutted in her dreams. Time has mined so much of her density now I have wanted to lift her like a large flightless bird and follow these paths to the top traceless where no interior design would follow. © Rick Forman |