The Field of Childhood

When the world grows too sharp
and rage rises like smoke in a sealed room,
She goes —
not with her feet, but with memory.

She runs to the field near her childhood home,
where the sky always opened wide enough
for even her smallest fears to disappear.

There were trees in the distance,
a baseball diamond where laughter once lived,
and grass that never judged —
only welcomed.

The children used to play there
Running, tumbling,
loud with joy,
soft with innocence
She now visits like a chapel.
Sacred and private.

When discord  moves  through a room like fire,
She runs —
not in panic,
but in prayer.
Silent.

To that field.
To the whispering trees.
To the safe ache of childhood.

Some places live inside you
not as memories,
but as medicine.
They heal in their own way.
They are always there.
That field is hers

And when she needs to run
She always knows
exactly where to go.
She is hidden and protected.