The Rest

In a moment
I am swept away in this small area. In the spring it is just a patch of grass, in the summer it is a bed of clovers. In the fall a mound of leaves and a blanket of snow claims it in the winter.

The birds fly over head. They rest in the poplar trees that are all around.
The perfect place to have a picnic. I put my palms on the familiar ground.
It is soft and comforting. I pluck the blades of grass, smell the clovers, toss the leaves, and grasp the snow season to season. The wind is my company with the birds in the trees.
Breathing is sweet. The sun penetrates the air; it reaches for me like a child to his mother. The sky witnesses the time
I spend.

Not much has changed since we last had a picnic here. It is hard to believe that ten years have gone by. My grandparents loved to sit on this land. We would drink tea and listen to my grandpa’s tales.
I have grown with the poplar trees that have branched out. They creak, for now the branches of the trees touch one another.
They were far apart before.

I wonder, if my grandpa had the chance to see me again, would he recall this very spot. To most it is a place to tread. There is nothing remarkable about it, more so when the green is dead. I cherish this place that nature embraces; it knows me well this near and dear location.