East of Upstate Eden

I was raised by woods,

swaddled in ferns,

bristly oxtongue sandals,

clothed in pine needles

and black earth.

In the winter I became trapped,

sometimes digging through the snow for hours.

Tears freezing in my lashes, I would think

of a warm house with a fireplace.

Now I live in cities and towns

where the acrid air infests my lungs

and there is never not noise.

Distant neighbors are the wildlife.

But when I visit, the woods reject me.

They send mosquitos and gnats,

images of snakes and bears,

to drive me away.

So now I am in between worlds,

homeless limbo

dreaming of that golden green

but lost in grey cement,

and brown and red rust.