vital quail
There’s a field
where the sky leans down
just enough to touch the grass —
and every evening,
the sun bleeds soft apologies
across the horizon.
I go there alone,
but I never feel lonely.
The light knows me.
It remembers.
It paints the trees in childhood tones —
lemonade lips,
gravel knees,
the kind of laughter
that cracked open the air
like fireflies at dusk.
I once ran barefoot here,
arms out like wings,
believing I could outrun sadness
if I only made it to the fence post by the big oak
before the sun dipped out of sight.
(Reader, I did.)
Sometimes the breeze still carries
the sound of a joke I told once
that made someone laugh so hard
they nearly fell over.
There’s no one here to hear it now,
but the wind remembers.
And that’s enough.
The sun rests easy on my shoulder
like an old friend,
saying nothing,
just glowing.
And I sit in the tall grass,
letting the golden hour
fold me up like a memory
that doesn’t hurt.
It’s funny how the sky
can make you feel held
without ever touching you.
Funny how the end of the day
can feel like a beginning
when it smells like summer
and sounds like laughter you loved.
orchid hamlet
lucid kindle
vivid creek
untold hazel