On frozen ground, where the morning dew melts against the rising sun, we step out, our boots sinking into the mud. The frost gave way to the buds of spring, but it clings like the vestiges of a ghost. Reminds us of how death clings to life.
On frozen ground, this holy ground, a creek cuts through. Dregs of the earth wash away with the time, scraping and eroding what once stood.
Oh, transient creek, Theseus’ ship doth pass through. When the winds of time have given more than they take, will you cease running? Will you let Mother Earth retain her form? Or will, with enough time, she devour herself whole?
Nature cannibalizes itself, I realize. There was nothing benevolent about it, for lurking a few feet behind is always destruction. But even still, I can’t help but be in awe. The fine silver, where the sun’s rays finally break through the clouds, shine bright on the budding green leaves accompanying the tree’s white blossoms. It reaches the lake, sparkles dancing across the glass surface. The flowers shiver as the light finally graces them, encouraging them to unfurl.
On the muddied ground I stand, swatting the flies that race past my head. The sun’s rays, once a kiss, is a blazing oven on my skin. There is no escaping its encapsulating heat. But I appear to be the odd one out. I know others my age love this weather. I cannot understand why. A high heat tolerance only does so much for the body, I know.
On concrete ground, my heels click in cold, harsh beats. The steel and glass skyscrapers reaching toward the sky are nothing like the nature of home. I walk to my job, try not to get sidetracked by the delicious smell of soft pretzels. Of course, I get distracted anyway.
Man is not cannibalistic. We are just part of nature, which is cannibalistic. Man, like nature, eats its own. We can’t help ourselves to our greed. Control is stretched thin, but we pretend we have it on a tight leash. Breathe in the smoke-filled air. At times, I miss the mountain’s serenity.
On frozen, stone ground, I lay my hand on her name. Rain pours into the open atrium, but I don’t care. In the rain, I talk to her again. In the rain, I remember my time in nature. In the rain, I remember beauty. I replace the flowers that wilted long ago. I don’t want to leave, but I must.
On boiling ground, I slather more sunscreen. The sun reaches its highest peak. Fifteen hours I endure its light. My insomnia is worse than ever before. Naturally, I sleep when the sun sleeps. I wish I could nap for twenty minutes.
On frozen ground, I rest my head. The marble mountain relieves the heat. I stare up at the stars in the sky, wondering how I’ve come this far. The bands of the Milky Way shine brighter here than anywhere I could find back home. I listen to the lone bird calling out for its friends, its shadow passing over the moon. My hair spills black ink across the rocks, my legs hang off the side of the cliff.
On frozen ground, this holy ground, I feel the winds kiss my face. I give my all to the night, raising my voice in praise. Dark vibrato echoes off marble, joining the bird song. I lift my eyes to the new moon, its black shape clear in the stars, so visible. Clouds, wisps of white smoke, dare cover their beauty.
On marble ground, the constellations meld together. One bleeds into the next, a swirl of dust in the endless sky. I marvel at what the sun has kept hidden from us in the daytime, even though I know that night brings no life. They stretch to eternity, an endless pursuit of fantasy. The blare of a car horn brings me back.
On frozen ground, I stare out my window. The city lights sparkle below me. The stars blotted out of the sky are still there. I squint to see them once more.
This was written by our contributing writer, Lauren DeSantis.
Image Source: Unsplash, Ole Thronborg
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