<p>Shelter<br /><br />by Allan Rozinski<br /><br />Sometimes, when the city’s crust<br />builds up and covers my skin, <br />creeps into my lungs to burrow within,<br />feeling like it wants to smother me, <br />I run off for shelter<br />to the cover of trees<br />in silent forests with cooling breezes,<br />and even further, up into the highlands<br />until the smog of civilization loosens<br />its gritty hold and drifts away <br />into the rarified air.<br /><br />I’ve spied on you <br />from the tallest treetops<br />waiting until you’ve gone<br />out of sight, and when<br />it’s safe again, I will descend<br />to the lowly ground <br />to hear the sound of nature’s<br />timeless song of the soil <br />that reminds me<br />of my humble origins<br />and tells me that<br />both everything<br />and nothing matters.<br /><br />I’ve sipped the wine<br />of morning dew<br />offered up by kind tulips<br />and gracious buttercups,<br />danced in meadows<br />wild with daisies<br />and scattered dandelions<br />disintegrating in the breeze,<br />sought counsel with<br />any robin come round,<br />common sparrows,<br />and those crafty crows<br />that always know<br />more than they let on<br />and most every ugly thing<br />humans can do,<br />and even so, still they spy on us<br />to find out what else we’re up to.<br /><br />While in the distance<br />far and near,<br />born in every town<br />is the menace and fear<br />where the people live<br />in their brittle little houses or<br />fancy fortresses, where so many<br />never really settle, never find<br />themselves at home. </p>
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