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
this path, hallway of bark and birds. Instead of water bubblers and cameras:
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.