Fences

When the clover comes in,

the fields shift from Kelly green to gold

as swaths of lemon and fresh-taffy yellow

stretch out as far as human eyes can see.

Bounded off in neat patches

framed by barbwire fences, a lush patchwork prison.

I spent a long time along those lines,

reclipping fallen wires

and driving posts back into the ground.

Its hardest where the weather has stripped back the topsoil,

the slope discouraging it’s return,

baring the rocky layers beneath.

Once deep enough though, the fences is stronger in those spans.

The cattle mind the fences,

but the sheer strength of their bodies,

if they lean too far,

or push their head and shoulders through to reach greener grass,

can level a good length easily.

If they knew their own strength, barbed wire would never hold them.

I came from a land where the sky is big,

bigger than any I have seen yet.

It wasn’t always blue,

it was rust and coral and amethyst too.

And grey.

A thousand shades.

Deep and devastating.

That sky would open up,

as if trying to wash away the very world beneath it.

Dead lakes would refill, rivers would roar.

In the spring,

the deluge would join in with the melting snow from the encircling mountains.

I remember our driveway turning into a moat,

wrapping around our house and yard.

The sound of it drowning out the trills of the Kingfisher and Meadowlark.

We were already isolated, and for a time,

we were an island.

The lake in front of our house was man-made a hundred years ago to feed the surrounding farmland.

Dug by father’s father’s father’s hands.

Sometimes I can still feel the dirt beneath my nails,

rich and reddish,

like the terracotta of the historic houses a row over.

I left that place,

a long time ago.

I loved that place.

I love it still, I think,

but I did not fit there.

As many colors as there were in that world…

the skies

the fields,

full of Laburnum, Aster, and Veronica,

the stones, bright white like the inside of fresh baked bread,

the stars…

Yet, these colors, the colors of my youth, when all put on a waving banner,

held high above my head, set me forever apart,

no longer welcome.

I moved to the city,

looking for somewhere to belong,

to be accepted.

I haven’t looked back,

except in wistful musings

of a day when maybe home can be home again.

Happiness is what you make it

I found a new family and they are colorful

brilliantly

colorful,

every shade different and beautiful.

We are all stronger than we were before.

We are stronger together.

The glass towers reflect

agate hues of the rising and setting sun,

while crowning lights change to

reflect the range of the rainbow.

I feel part of something.

Something bigger and better than myself.

For a long time, I was torn,

one foot in two worlds.

It can take a lifetime to find yourself,

but when you do,

It is an overpowering wave,

stitching yourself back together.

You have so much more to give when you are whole.

I see those banded colors,

draped from windows and hanging from balconies,

displayed in storefront windows.

Stickers on the faces in the streets.

I see you.

I am here for you.

I am here with you.

You have a home.

The world has never been black and white.