This time of year tends to make me nostalgic. There’s not much else to do in the cold, dark winter than reflect on the past. I wrote this poem sixteen years ago when I was first away at college.
Nostalgic
A firm bed in a small, but comfortable room.
Beaming faces of friends and family.
Rough, wet tongue from the dog washing my face.
Splashing in curbside puddles.
Dancing barefoot over old, crusted snow
in the chill November night with the fingernail moon.
Bathing in tingly, salt-scented raindrops
that feel like millions of little kisses
smothering the bare parts of my body.
Romping through the knee-high, amber grass
while drinking in the warmth of a sunny June day
that tastes of freshly squeezed lemonade.
Listening to a solitary bird sing from the silence
while watching the sun lay her head
to rest behind distant western peaks –
the sky above a mixture of swirling pastels.
Gulping down the brine shrimp odor
of the Great Salt Lake on a gray-clouded March afternoon…
Clinging onto memories – letting them make up
for a current life of mere survival.
Breaking the Silence 