Lately I can recall the scent of damp wheat grass,
and smears of red clay on my calves,
at the end of each day when I wandered home
accidentally *****, and purposefully human;
a child of the earth who found unity, easily.

Bury me back in the moss garden, and carve my name on the stones
where I once crushed berries
and painted my cheeks, as
an adolescent nomad celebrating dirt and singing for
sky, while the cows were my companions and the birds,
my messengers of joy.

Take me back there one day, to rest
in final slumber.
Then, perhaps I can feel the ceaseless wonder
that once I felt when
I brushed my hand against the bark of a tree,
if now this life can no longer give me as much.

Vacant pleas for union fill the muffled ears of oafs and tickle these text boxes with futility.
How do I find the courage to write out loud?
To speak to people,
without prompting?
To laugh and cry legibly,
once I know a lover's
listening?