There are so many things to like about this place; so many reasons not to move —
the feel of grass licking the backs of my bare legs, the
damp smell of earth, the leaves overhead
like silvered wings of whispering butterflies.
My eyes drawn to slivers peering
at the world through a curtain of flowering stalks
whose buds are just beginning to bloom.
I am a child again looking for sanctuary.
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa