triangular tree-tops dot the horizon
the Fir has a specific shape
scented cones fall to delighted squirrels
eagerly scooping and burying nature’s bounty
as another winter has passed without catastrophe
blankly staring out stained glass, longing to feel the grass
between aging toes
mud puddle hop-scotch  memories transport me from a desk and a screen
to a childhood filled with wide open spaces and wooded glades
and the freedom to explore the world around me
soft cooing of the female squab forces the present into focus
and I sit watery-eyed trying to recapture a fading memory
it slips from view as I try to rekindle an interest in the job at hand
slow death by 9 to 5 employment