A sweep of a paintbrush
Is the only thing that could capture this angelic devil of a place
All that could create the crumble of this sidewalk,
Or the tickle of this wind and these stabs of sleet.
Or the dashing of the shadows by this Spring's happy rays.

All of this wonder and this common rarity
In this baby of a town
That cries to be heard and loved
For the mind that sits inside it
Wanting to be known for more than the just it's beauty of a school.
It sits as a daisy in a field of sunflowers,
Unnoticed until the ladybugs that fly from it are seen
Fluttering to great heights
Showering wonder on all the witnesses.

But what of the aphids,
The townies,
Those that call this home?
Do they get no credit
For building a life,
A family,
A dream,
Within this cozy corner of the country?

They see this place as home,
Looking at it with comfort and nostalgia.
It is their point B.
Their finishing line.
Or maybe even their starting point,
But still a place of birth.
Through their eyes,
These cracked roads and looming trees
Are glazed in memories
Of hopscotch and snowmen.
But no matter to whom, there is love and there is hate.

There are those who wish to flee this beautifully forsaken prison.
There are those who wish they had never been elsewhere.
To everyone though, there is beauty in it some place.