Living or Dead Things

In the early dawn,

drawn from sleep, I snake through

dewy grass. Light gleams off of these

fresh blades, in the foreground

of the thicket. Voluptuous oak and pine

tower over these younglings and

this youngling, with damp Converse.

Forsythia fondle my feet as I follow

moist soil and observant raspberries.

Despite my wish to be enveloped by

leaves, blanketed by birch, I burst

out of this vibrant archway, smoked out

by the requirements of my education.

I move past the broken-chain-link.

My smudged charcoal shoes

touch grey faux-stone and

a small leaf sticks to my shoelace,

attempting to trick me into turning back.

Yet, at the touch of pavement, sight of a

Marlboro butt, the school bell tolling: wilts.