I am quite fond of
walking down the busy streets
filled with intricate trinkets to buy and
unique people to see, and of
running through the markets
like a nomad among
unknown souls.
But
more than anything,
I miss the green mountains that
run as far as the eye sees,
and the vast, blue sky that races
with the summer breeze.
I remember rides in that old, white truck;
grandfather always gripping
the steering wheel through the endless
twists and turns.
The trees within vision would all blur together,
blending their leaves as if
Mother Nature's paintbrush
was glazing the car window
with several shades of green.
When the truck came to a stop
the dragonflies floated over to rest
upon the rear-view mirrors
while the butterflies dances among the trees, and
I would scurry out of the vehicle
to see the view of the
quiet mountain-tops
as the rattle of cicadas
hummed past my ears.
What a breath-taking sight it was,
and still must be.
High above the world,
away from all the fuss,
feeling as if one
truly
existed.
A brief moment of winsome reality...
so rare, but indeed,
so real.
Oh how I wish
I could exist
like so,

forever.