I run my hands up down my arms
Cobble stone cold paths to concrete
To old dirt roads through smooth Aspen bark
The rough scars of lighting with French kissed forking tongues
The ocean washes in and out my breath
A warm breeze from down the mountains.
I close my eyes as creeks gurgle out  
Snaking past jagged rockaways
little paint brush strokes of every painters color
Spring love laced flower goosebumps follow.
My hands spreading out 80 years old strong oak growth.
This sun bears down on the forests of my mind.
The Sandy plains that stretch out to beaches beyond my toes.
From a forgotten path where no one goes.
My hair, my grassy plains.
I remember my origin.  
Run away now. Run back to the woods.