Brown.
Quiet.
Still.
Dead.
Covered in limp leaves,
Blown off stickish grey trees
Surrounding.
Blown by misty gusts
Cold
Pushing and pulling to its will
And then frisking away
Leaving
A barren field.
Brown.
Quiet.
Still.
Dead.
A morning walk leads me there.
I remember the summer breeze.
The green hues.
The vibrant life.
The warmth.
The laughter-filled picnics.
I tighten my coat.
Shiver.
Hug my own self.
I hate this
Barren field!
Brown.
Quiet.
Still.
Dead.
Nothing can happen here now.
Not in this dead place.
I stoop down abruptly and pick up a leaf
by the stem
The leaf itself hangs limp,
Like tear-soaked slop.
It drops to the ground
To join the muck.
I hold a lonely stick.
My new banner.
Feeling foolish
I thrust it from my hand.
Nothing here.
I kick at a dead stick.
Frustration boiling.
Sadness overtaking
My heart
In this dead place.
Lost hopes.
The muck sticks to my boot.
I stomp, stomp, stomp
On the barrenness
The brownness.
The quietness.
The stillness.
The deadness.
And through my kicking,
I am covered in,
Splattered by,
All that muck.
I stop to catch my breath.
Bend down,
Hands on knees.
Open my eyes.
To see tiny shoots of green
Uncovered
By my flailings
Surrounded by the mire
The smallest little life
Strong in its resolve
The push through the
Barren.
Brown.
Quiet.
Still.
Dead.
I touch its tenderness
and
I love it.
Straightening up,
in my dirtiness,
I look to the sky
and
Smile.
