Outside
Emily Patrick

I haven’t been outside since I saw the sunset yesterday.
Instead of tasting the fresh smells of spring on my lips
Or feeling the Earth relent under the pressure of my footfalls,
I withdrew to the corner of my room feeling adjunct to
That living vibration of unsullied complexities we call nature.
It was that night of a days past that I stood leaning against a tree,
Arms folded watching the sun make it’s final descent enveloping
The air with rich hues of orange and red but slowly taking
It’s lingering painting with it.

When the painter had brushed his canvas with the milky dusk
Of night I stood there, unappeased by the oncoming night as
A means of retirement. I signed deeply wrapping myself in the
Shadows of the tree looking out across the field.

And with the infinite care, as the field gathered it’s self like
A mother collecting her child’s toys, I frowned to understand
How this sea of tranquility could be unbroken, regardless of the
Cold pavement and fast cars around it. I felt overwhelmed
For just a moment receding in to the darkness of the street away
From the field, wishing I had it’s restful slumber.

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