In That Field Where Our Minds Wander

We're in such a rush to say we've found it.
That we have it, and own it. We feel wakeful,
alive with urgency.

But then, it doesn't quite rain,
and it isn't quite sunny—
a pause hangs like thick humidity,
and in that field where our minds wander

Patience flops like a lone,
wet tree, berries burdening
her branches. We tend her fruit
and ease her arms, pluck
fuzzy caterpillars from her bark,
cover her roots with the richest dirt
and lift our shirts, for shelter.

And then, above us,
something breaks. The heat,
the pressure lessens. And suddenly
Patience has wide, flat leaves with
droplets fit for drinking. She's
shrugging off our slim support and
tempting our legs to climb her. We lift
one foot, and then another
until berries are bursting beneath
our weight, and the view
is startling, yet soft.

Each influence is disquieting.
This place, it isn't ours.
Unannounced, we leave it nameless
and we drift into the dark,
berry ink seeping across our palms
into lines we do not need to read
to recognize, or follow.

.