I love this land
but in the black of night
I can convince myself
that I love anything
even worms have
a sort of poetry
in the moonless gloom
rustic grass
straw and gold and bleached green
wind rattles
smell of sage, earth, man content
history
yes, these lands have never forgotten
their history
unlike cities, always pressing on
to modernize until what? perfection?
but the hills sit and remember
and the fields, and even the roads
the very air smells
of stories
I love this land
but in the black of night
I can convince myself
that I love anything
even worms have
a sort of poetry
in the moonless gloom
rustic grass
straw and gold and bleached green
wind rattles
smell of sage, earth, man content
history
yes, these lands have never forgotten
their history
unlike cities, always pressing on
to modernize until what? perfection?
but the hills sit and remember
and the fields, and even the roads
the very air smells
of stories
I love this land
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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