A dirt trail all the way up.
A field full of reds and golds,
shining in the sun.
The smell of pine tickles
the nose and senses into
happiness that lasts.
Slanting granite on the very
top with ridges to climb.
The sun beats down.
The only souls around for miles
and miles. The only sounds
are crickets singing away.
Surrounded by mountains,
a vulture soars above.
A sense of peace.
About the Creator
Fiona Howell
I am Fiona Howell, an Irish musician and a writer hailing from New Hampshire, US. I have two books out on Amazon: The Locked Box and Blackwood. I have three poems published in anthologies by the Peterborough Poetry Project.
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Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts6 days ago in Longevity
Comments (1)
This felt so blissful. Loved your poem!