This little piece is about someone who has lost their way.
Sit in the classroom.
Stare out the window.
If only it were possible
to negotiate a trade.
The blue, the green…the brown of the earth
the loneliness of individualism,
the longing for more…
in exchange for steel-filled air,
concrete beneath the feet
and a cast of like metropolitan acquaintances.
The life that will satisfy.
The place that will feel right.
Swap one for the other
Get it done.
Leave the house. Educate. Find a niche.
Years fly, time crawls.
And niches it would seem,
if one can find them to begin with,
stifle the mind,
the body and the soul.
The scent of lilacs
on the coattails of summer winds.
Sweet and heavy,
like invisible maple syrup
that deceives the eyes
and tempts the nose.
Freshly turned soil
dark and moist,
with its mysteriously clean odor.
Raging black thunderclouds.
Rain marching forward
assaulting the land as it travels.
Or the air, thick with dandelion fluff
after a particularly windy afternoon.
Like the finest February snow storm.
it would seem that home is,
exactly where you’ve left it.