So often you vanish in the dark,
          my fair weathered friend.

Although it is there where I require you the most,
          my reminder of a silhouette existence.

I will become my own shadow,
          no difference between me and lightlessness.

I expand like a riddle in your thoughtless mind.

It is the army of children
who wake me from sleep,
as they march towards
the neighborhood park,
with their declarations
of freedom.

I thought I was them
as I awoke from my rest,
but my pasture of purpose
has changed from
slide to desk.

I thought I was them
as I longed for green,
I thought I was them
and I walked towards the scene.

And I was quick to remember
nature said it best,
          how easy she gathers
          when we realize we are her guest.

There are lots of ways to
watch the babbling brook,

eyes closed fishing for
memories in a nook.

There are lots of ways to
walk along park trees,

a deep awareness of green
and the sound of autumn's breeze.

There are lots of ways to
name the sturdy rose,

white petal pearls  
and her iceberg clothes.

But today is for nature
and her in-between silence,

like a grey stone
tucked between dirt
we look to for guidance.

Lets you and I
speak in languages
of ultimatums
and dare to
never discover
what the blind
would want to know.

I imagine your foot
hovering over
the pedal.

Your toes
salivating
in their shoes,
ready for you
to just step
on it already.

And the green
light of our moment
sending you into
a forward frenzy.

You wink at me,
the apparent slowpoke
in our scenario,
as if you're winning
some imaginary race,

that only sends you
flying into the arms
of another red light,
and another one after that,
and a stop sign there,
sandwiched between
a cross guard and
a rolling ball that
sends you to a
rolling stop.

And as I catch
up to you,
as I always do,
I wonder if
that's how you
approach the
everyday lanes
of your life,
racings towards
      conclusions,
never stopping  
to smell the sweet
      surprise of your
slow surroundings.

Why does the cabbage
provoke such hatred,
unlike the sugar cookies
in their red lace box?

Why does the lover know
the way of the garden so well,
yet stampede off the path
and into the daisies?

It's the same as why
you must contend with the
aftermath of your family,
and become the spy
amongst the shrubs.

It's the same as why
we must speak to our
uncles like cherub angels
who know nothing of
their places in the cosmos,

and bite into our
strawberries to
find nature's
emerald right
there in front
of everyone
to witness,
glowing with
answer and resolve.

It will always
be just a strawberry
      to them.