the patient earth, strawberry fields, undisturbed
quiet in every shade of green, tasting the smell of fresh cut

grass, the mud pools of childhood, the empty river that
once hummed along lonely roads and flower heads.

A clear night sky made for whoever is looking, just in that
moment, stars that blink away the dark,

and those mornings on ice that meddle with affairs
of warm sheets and flesh, the frost that bites

cold feet in a hot shower.

- Christina McClure