The sounds fall away--
Idling cars rumbling in anticipation
Roaring motors competing with a red light
Loud voices heckling visitors
Snatches of hurried conversions
Disappear--
Dissolving like early mist into the sunrise
Replaced by whistling birds and
Wind playing through the trees
The city retreating behind green hills and brown branches
Narrow streets give way to rolling paths and
Open expanses of grass
Seas of flowers rippling
Yellow
Purple
Blue
And red
Stretched for miles
A natural city of color in a grey field of buildings
Here I can leave my thoughts behind
Trapped at the gates that keep that manmade world at bay
And let loose the world of home
Here I am transported to my little village
Three thousand miles away
Where I run the uneven streets
And bike along the train tracks
And read under the shade of trees to my birds and my wind
Racing through the large green leaves of
Spring
Summer
Fall
Yellow and orange and red
Here the noisy bustle and suffocating crowds
Are a mere memory
Here quiet is allowed to roam free
Across the ground and over hills and through trees that scrape the sky
Here I dare to believe
I just might be home.
Idling cars rumbling in anticipation
Roaring motors competing with a red light
Loud voices heckling visitors
Snatches of hurried conversions
Disappear--
Dissolving like early mist into the sunrise
Replaced by whistling birds and
Wind playing through the trees
The city retreating behind green hills and brown branches
Narrow streets give way to rolling paths and
Open expanses of grass
Seas of flowers rippling
Yellow
Purple
Blue
And red
Stretched for miles
A natural city of color in a grey field of buildings
Here I can leave my thoughts behind
Trapped at the gates that keep that manmade world at bay
And let loose the world of home
Here I am transported to my little village
Three thousand miles away
Where I run the uneven streets
And bike along the train tracks
And read under the shade of trees to my birds and my wind
Racing through the large green leaves of
Spring
Summer
Fall
Yellow and orange and red
Here the noisy bustle and suffocating crowds
Are a mere memory
Here quiet is allowed to roam free
Across the ground and over hills and through trees that scrape the sky
Here I dare to believe
I just might be home.
© 2017 Elise Price