Bent and Beat

lately i find myself longing for

the loamy soil of home
that soft clay under your feet as you walk
dark and rich as my grandfather's black coffee
as cool and distant as my mother's gaze

the smell of summer rain upon furrowed fields
the sound of the drops upon the leaves of corn
the drone of cicadas, steady and constant
the communal rise and fall of bullfrog songs
the trees hung with the lights of thousands of fireflies

most of all i think of a particularly sweet scent
that always seems to rise out of the trees
as i child i learned it was honeysuckle
and we would pull the long stamens from the flowers
to enjoy the dripping nectar
as i grew older, i learned the vines were not native
introduced a century before and our forests were choking upon them
their pervasive perfume was the smell of one species
destroying another
just like this evasive nostalgia, choking the potential out of the present moment
sweet and thick, like wild honey
but dangerously misplaced

so fade off into the distance, eastbound train
racing headlong into the dawn
to the green grass, across the muddy rivers
through the oaks, birch, and sycamore
crickets and lightning bugs
and bear along with you
these honeysuckle dreams of yesterday