The cold sun
drew each line crisply,
dead grass
in waves on the ground,
skeleton forest
at the field edge,
the stark
patterns of winter.
Day’s blue had
leached from the sky,
summer’s
color long gone from the earth.
With dusk the
lines dissolved.
The world a
sea of tiny dots,
while color
spread on the western sky still crisp with light.
Perhaps my
feet would sink through the grass,
the melting
world wash over me,
the ground an
illusion, magic.
Yet each
step found firm footing,
carried me
back, carried me home.
Home, warm
and bright, ordinary.
©2019 Maria
Amodei
