Whoosh of a Sliding Glass Door
There is a part of me rural
like deer gathering on Sunday morning
like the scent of skunk entering my car vent
cans of Busch rusting in red clover
and lilacs blooming, lilacs blooming, just for me
There is a part of me rural
as a blue jay swoops, screeching at my cat
as she explores an unleashed frontier
green emboldens after a welcomed rain
as I am ionized after each shower of the Perseids
There is a part of me rural
like dust resting on a country store's front windowsill
"Come in, run fingers over your past"
waiting to be reborn, then being reborn
my inner child toddles on barn wood flooring
There is a part of me rural
as the whoosh of a sliding glass door
has inside running outside
mint green sheets waving at turquoise gutters
free from a reality that nothing is on tv
There is a part of me rural
like cascading billboards for Meramec Caverns
like winds winding the giant ball of twine
streams of red, white and blue church doors
staring at free air defining my simpleRR smile
