Rays of orange crest the tips of my concrete jungle,

this municipal lack of originality I call home.

Iridescently gliding over the towers,

in which people reside and laborers drone.

To me, this feels different today, unlike most,

which have ceased to be alluring, at best: mundane.

But now the colors drift, like silk along the coast,

touching the tips of the waves in their kingly display.

Walking through the clamor and cacophony,

the clanking of steel against steel and skin,

I pass through a tract, this I do commonly.

Only today do I see how I’ve sinned.

I’ve walked without purpose, failed to give any regard

to this tract of wonder, how I long for a yard.

No longer obscured by the worries of tomorrow,

for the splendor of this land has erased all my sorrow.

The tips of the green are moistened with dew

each drop sliding down, blade by blade.

I feel they’ve longed for me to notice their shew,

silently pleading for attention within a glade.

Unconsciously, my movement has stopped,

knelt over the green of a sodden earth.

Too long have a faltered, no more shall I shirk,

until my insides are warm and emotions topped.

Onward I glide, barely imprinting the earth,

noticing amber shafts that lightly pierce through leaves,

in awe of pure joy, of which I once had a dearth.

No more is constant artificial light my need.

But, eventually the green is no more, the canopy broadens

to an urban piece of concrete where I process the numbers.

I suppose walks must end and philosophy fade,

but this moment I shan’t forget, when I leapt out of the shade.