Asthma

By Beverly Greene

NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without Beverly Greene's expressed and written consent.

Busy and dirty
with the filth
of money
and greed
and anger
at faces unseen,
the streets are full
of the life
I don't want
anymore -
a life covered over
with Martha Stewart
coordinates
and furnished with
four-year old
antiques,
a life raped
on TV,
murdered
on pay-per-view,
a Technicolor nightmare
I need to wake from.
So, I travel back
in my mind
to a place
I once
knew:

Dust flies,
gravel jumps
beneath my feet
as I walk,
following the flow
of the roadside creek
bubbling
with purity.

Up the dirt driveway,
onward to the house
built with grandmother's hands
long before she was a mother
during the big war
that borrowed grandfather.

The waiting home
hides the yellowing
fiberglass pump house,
cover for a tapped vein
of cold mountain water
that nourishes
this way of life.

Brown pants and blue dresses
biding their time,
waiting to be reincarnated
into handmade patchwork quilts
wave in the warm breeze
as I walk up the hill
slick with thick grass.

Welcomed home by the lush ferns,
tiny moist fingers that caress my legs,
dirt and dense moss tease my naked toes.

I soak up the aroma of the mountains,
heavy and earthy, rejuvenating,
fresh and infused with the ages.

With a canopy crown of hundreds
of years of natural wisdom,
I am surrounded by the golden glow
of sun streaks falling down
from the hidden sky.

Drowning in green,
alone in the world,
I breathe for the first time

again.

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� 2001 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.

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