The wind whips through my hair,
flinging apple-scented strands
into my open gap-tooth smile,
but I don’t mind.
I raise my hands to the heavens,
wiggle my fingertips, pretend
to touch that endless, inky space
of stars, galaxies—worlds beyond
our own.
I have not heard a human voice
in fourteen days but have listened
to the conk-la-ree of red-winged
blackbirds as they flit among oaks
and elms, the jug-a-rum chants
of bullfrogs,
plump as pincushions,
near the pond. My friends worry
I’ve grown too melancholy, but
they need not be concerned.
For I’ve grown
nothing more than wise—traded
the barrage of news for the scent
of balsam pine, slipped off heels
to pad along golden leafy paths,
dug bitten nails into supple soil.
This brief reprieve
will not purge the world of evil
but may at least restore my faith
that humanity has not lost
the essence of its soul.
