The other day I was told, “You are lucky to have grown up in a place that people will always want to come back to.”
In the spring months since my homecoming, I’ve enjoyed bringing my notebook with me out in the woods and doing free writes. I’ve been turning these into poems, which I am looking forward to sharing. Here is one:
I’m writing from the spot of so many firsts
Far from cities and nightclubs and bathrooms.
The mountains are dark blue
The sky is grey.
Driving here I passed a sign:
“Your community farm.”
Send me back to the city
Where I belong
Or at least where I can disappear.
I always go to Target when it’s raining
And try to forget about the world outside.
Writing letters to you is my new poetry.
I miss the tortured city days.
I miss the destructive side of myself.
It gave me an edge.
Now the wind blows the pine trees and little else.
I am dying to be swept away but then why on earth are my feet planted on this ground?
This ground that is so much my own.
I can’t share.
I’m selfish as an only child.
This is my turf and no one can possible know it like I do.
In the summer I will walk on the other side of the reservoir.
Maybe I will be alone
Through the woods
Until I reach the rock.
There I will hang my belongings on the knob of a tree
Remove my clothes
Climb the rock
And dive in.
I’ll swim across the expanse on my back
Till I reach the island
Emerging on land like the first dinosaurs
Eyes wide open.
I’ll sun myself
Pine needles sticking to my wet skin.
The sun shining red behind eyelids.
But today is just a rainy spring day
And I am eternally waiting.