Years back, I fell in love with a place and faces I likely won’t touch again. I relished in minds unlike my own and simple conversations that strung a web of a future I reckoned only in dream.
I saw one day, as my first true fall set in, a tree that held every color. Top to bottom, life mirrored before me. I wrote a 40 page paper of autumn for the Romantics, and forged my first connection with the cycles of earth. Strange how it surfaced among the concrete world, and clear as day now.
As time pressed on, and passion in social connection wilted, my grief took hold. First I was thrilled, challenged by the ranges of my peers and their intellect. Though within months, conversations ebbed and slackened into youthful lust. As life shifted from warm tones to winter, through the new year and again, I isolated.
A lonesome sensation I could not identify, for people rattled around me more than ever. One day, as I laid on a bleak lawn, my solemn mind was met, and I wrote my void of sensation into existence. Perhaps there are souls who can thrive solely off human connection, but anxious that must be. Our world today tells of this disparity, I find.
To my loves long and lost, stretch to the sun. Rest assured in the palm of our Mother’s hand.
2020
The Grass Here Doesn’t Listen
There is something about the air,
how it holds the echo of words
and hums
all times.
Do the people here know how quiet
alone can be? All the air sucked
from a bag till it pops
from nothing
into all,
just one magpie in far flight over
the woolen yellow plains
stretching east
to eternity.
Do they know a greying day
sweet in her sorrows, only
you and the pine
may console?
The grass here does not listen.
Autumn rumbles among distant
voices while I sit
alone.
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