A Forgotten Field

March 28, 2018
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I float about the pale birches, as
my reflection of burning reds
streams down the river.


I jolt around to the snap of ground twigs
each cracking carefully,
each creak creeping closer.

I wince at the movement,
each fiber tugging,
each escape vanishing.


 I peer at unusual visions—
 sights, sounds, smells,
 brighter lights, greener stems.


I land on the hand of a nearby child.
Giggles echo,
and the room pours out with spirit.

I reminisce before a finger-printed window.
No birch trees, no rivers,
but this is my home.

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