As a child I walked with noisy fingers along the hemline of so many meadows of back home. Green fabric stretched out, shy earth, shock of sky. I'd sit on logs like pulpets, listen to the sermon of sparrows and find god in simplicity there amongst the dandelion and thorn. Now I frequent hotel lobbies, like a chain smoker having a bad day. A nasty habit that breathes itself. Delivering each day to the needy next. Each with the promise of glitter and glory. But how my tiny heart aches to return. Like a daisy rooted in rot and rubbish asked to grow in strange rooms. Fed neon and cold pizza. I fear I may wither with forgetfulness. So I pull these pages close about my ears Tiny, leafy limbs pale with impression. My pen a single flame to keep me warm like a beacon holding memory. Until I am able to go back to my lovely mountains, or until I am strong enough to bring their essence to the rest of these hungry people who long to remember the simplicity which lies beyond the cities inbred streets and the godliness which resides in us all.