i miss the forest;
how the fog
hangs low
over the mountains,
and sinks
into the river valleys
and lake
basins.
i miss
the smell
of wet
air,
that cold
heavy damp
that greets you
on cold days
like these.
the world out here
is too
vast,
too blue,
too bright.
in the mountains
perhaps there is a
melancholy,
but it is a
gentle melancholy;
a bittersweet
sort of
'welcome home'
that a loved one
might say to you
through tired eyes.
out here
there is no earth,
just sky
that reaches
all the way down
and spreads itself
across the land,
while the air
whips and lashes out
with some sort
of end of world madness.
home
is where the
earth lives,
where the earth sleeps,
under a heavy
quilt
of soft
grey fog
that parts
only after the sky
has been kind enough
to give way
to the entirety
of the milky way,
so that on
quiet nights
you can look up
from atop a mountain
and see
the whole universe
looking back at you.
most of all
i miss
not missing
things.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
