So Far Away

I'm in the tall, green grass.

The wind kisses my cheeks,
the wild grain hugs my legs as I
walk through the trails carved by 
affluent bikers and joggers trying to forget
the concrete sidewalks and the city they lead to.

The sun beats down on my skin
like a waffle maker pressing dough
between its two hot plates.

The creek water flows,
I can't see where it begins or ends;
It is like a great river in this small park,
feeding life to catfish and turtles
that rest along it's muddy shores.

I walk along it's thin, winding body,
searching for answers in the water
that doesn't need to stop and take it's breath.

The birds are singing to their babies 
in the evergreen trees, 
they flap their featherless wings, 
straining to sing back to mother and father.

I smell the sweet pollen collecting in the air,
the sugary sap from butterfly bushes.

I take a branch from the bush and hold it 
so I can smell the blooming flowers while I wander
through the trails.

It smells like home in the spring time, 
just before the cicadas started screaming day and night;
when the birds would begin to sing in the shade, and 
I could always tell when a blue jay would chirp 
good morning.

This place is more alive
than a school bus on the first day of school,
more alive than the stadium during Thursday night football.

This place has more to say than I ever will;
It holds secrets and hidden treasures within the vast greenery 
that surround me like a cloak.

It's quiet, but loud.
Hidden, but bold and outspoken.
Small, but significant,
like the first blooming flower you see
in the park, signaling the spring and summer.

The wind is kissing my cheeks,
the wild grain hugs my legs.
I'm walking through the past,
but I feel so far away.

Published by Grant McLaughlin

Poet and Journalist. email me at grantmac1231999@outlook.com

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