Magic Hour

every individual leaf and blade of grass seems to be separate,
the breeze’s chilly prickle-bite gently pluck-plucking at every one,
an unpredictable, yet tranquil symphony,
as the moth’s umber wings glide her by,
speaking in a delicate whisper,
like everyone knows her name,
and all I can think is –
Mother Earth’s voice is such a magnificent view

it’s Magic Hour,
the time when the sunlight is golden,
polished by the friction of time’s passing,
softened by the imminent falling of the night,
lending the world an impossibly beautiful glow,
and it’s music to my eyes

-image via Pexels

Wild

she unzipped the tent and stood,
outstretching her arms,
breathing in the morning

looking out at the expanse of the glassy, mirrored water,
at the billowing greens blanketing the mountainous terrain,
at the mist rising to greet the cerulean sky,
she felt almost frivolous

the sweet tang of wild bergamot skipped along the breeze,
but it was the smell of the lake water that enveloped her,
a rich, damp scent that settled into her clothes and her hair and stayed there,
stitched to her with muddy thread

here, she was wild,
wondrous,
free

There

I long to be there,
where the world is not held together by nails and lumber and glass,
where there are no neon signs blinking, no never-ending tracks and metal systems stuck on repeat,
where there are no glowing devices beckoning,
and narrating every move

I long to be there,
where the treetops dance and hum a whispered concerto,
where wildlife is welcome to be wild,
clicking and crackling and chirping as they share their habitat,
where shades of gold, russet, and sage color the earth,
multiplying and transforming beneath my fingertips and before my eyes

I long to be there,
where the shoreline is speckled with cattails and reeds rustling in the breeze,
where wind-rippled waters reflect the lazy streaks of sun-bleached clouds above,
where the smell of damp earth at the break of dawn is better than anything Starbucks serves

I long to be there,
where the whole world opens up,
bright and clear,
where land and sky and water bleed into one another,
soaking each other,
where they mix and mingle until it’s hard to know which is which

I long to be there,
where the forest always welcomes,
the sky never ends,
and the water always begins

I long for there
to be out my back door

-image is mine