She used to speak in shades of green…
Earthly, with undertones of gravel and dust.
She liked it that way,
Where she could feel the swell of dirt inside her,
Taste the grass, pick sand from her teeth…
Tangled midnight hair hung in transient neglect
Down the arch and curve of shoulder and back,
Finally coming to end with a whispered reminder
Of its existence against the edges of her innocence...


And, once her innocence was lost
(as all innocence must be, time and again)
She realized a certain freedom in heart and rainclouds
In claiming her Oz, in following her own golden hued path.
She lay in reckless splendour among the sun ripened poppies, dreaming
Of *****, and fingers tracing her adjectives and verbs
Sinking into her nouns with plunging clarity...


Home, she writes...is not a place to sleep,
Or a place to lay my head
And find wishes in dandelion seeds
Home is in my soul,
Buried deep in some forgotten place
Between slumber and sunrise
Where my hands grasp at golds and reds,
Gathering colours like wildflowers
So that I may inhale their scent,
Exhaling more than just green
But a wanderlust, in an effort to find
The dark silhouette of you...


A fold of parchment and a gust
Of tepid wind
She seals her fate.
She no longer contemplates
A three time click
To send her back the way she came
Instead she longs for Emerald,
And moves in pace, with the desires
Of every where, any where
This brick road
Will take her...