Grove

Jennifer Paige©1997

Alive, it is cool and green

            Breezy and fresh

            Moist and earthy

The oak tree juice

            Sweet beneath the skin

            Skin crumbles like charred leather

Dry and dusty roads suffocating in the heat

Shade becomes a little flask of paradise

Gravel crushed beneath the rubber soles

            In grainy, hypnotic rhythm

Red, yellow, and purple dot the flaxen plain

            A Surat painting in another time

            Without its frame

Brittle brickle stems shatter from lack of rain

            Childhood

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