behind the fence
down the beaten grassy path
around the bent and scraggly trees
by the old mossy stone wall
an iron gate stands ajar
a dragonfly alights upon
the goldenrod sprouting through
the thresher's rusted carriage
under which the voles
have made their home
i have spent my days and weeks
running across these fields
through these creeks
and down these paths
not forgotten, not neglected
but reused, as it were
where the farmhands left
the things that lost their shine,
that lost their use
and thus their value
i have spent my days in peals of
laughter and drops of sweat,
running, climbing,
trekking through these
strange and wonderful worlds
of head-tall reeds and
mountainous hillocks,
hiding behind this creaking door
for the seeker to discover me
only to run and start again
across the field of golden wheat
over the trunk of a fallen tree
that bridges the banks of a
cavernous divide, where some may
fear to tread i have plunged
head first into never-ending adventure
from sunrise to sunset
through these places left aside
left to grow as they will
as we will