You sit in your room,
looking out—
green grass stretching soft,
blue sky opening wide,
wind wrestling gently
through the trees.
But here—
in this small, quiet room,
a glowing screen before you—
you scroll,
and scroll,
and scroll.
Time drifts.
Slips away.
You rise.
Return to the window.
Again.
And again.
Watching—
rabbits crossing,
trees swaying,
life moving
without you.
Creatures who need this—
snakes, insects, the wild—
all rooted
in something real.
And you—
breathing in,
breathing out—
still trapped inside.
Until—
your mother’s voice cuts through,
sharp and sudden:
Go outside.
You groan,
drag your feet,
but then—
you step out.
Air kisses your skin.
Earth presses beneath your feet.
You bend,
fingers brushing the grass—
and suddenly—
you are grounded.
You are gentle.
You are restored.
You are awake.
Something so simple,
so restless,
so real—
and it makes you smile.
Like a soft hum
returning
to your skin.
