I still go.
Whenever I can—
as much as I can.
Once a month
during the never-ending school year.
Almost every weekend
in the sticky Iowan summer,
where the copious cornfields
grow as tall as Jack’s beanstalk.

Sometimes I long
for those familiar
four hour car rides,
and to pull onto the rough gravel road.
Hearing the first person rush to shout,
“I see the farm!”
Taking a deep breath
of the fresh country air.

This is what it is all about—
a place where I am free.
It is not a beauty contest.
I can be myself.
Nobody is around to judge me.
I have nothing to prove.

I am free.