Poem 5: Place

Look, there, beyond the rolling hills,
round knuckles of emerald,
past the gentle slopes of grass.
Ignore the dark dirt beneath our feet,
or the chestnut dust mingling with mud.
Do not cry with the rain.
Look past the box buildings coated with grime
with their flat roofs and wooden plank walls
and dusty, cracked glass windows.
Stand on the broken swing dangling from the aged tree
with its thick, tired branch bowing down,
grab the frayed rope and stand on the cracked leather seat
and look up, out, and far.
Look beyond the cumulus clouds
to where the blue peeks out
over the slate mountains and their crystal snow caps
where the glaciers begin edging down
to sapphire lakes in plains of gold
that melt to deserts of crimson and dunes of sand.

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