In this place I am lost,
on a table scattered with bits and bobs,
no settings, no vegetables, no fragrant flowers.
There’s beef, some cotton in between plates,
three silver tongs, and paisley napkins.
Beside the table where I’d normally find
a towering oak to shade me, I find a scrub
to mock me and steal the moisture from me.
The grass does not greet me with a soft touch,
instead it cracks a joke and scratches my feet.
The air is empty, and it blows in a sporadic fashion,
bringing no relief to the oven I now live in.
But, I can see why this place is loved,
for the sky stretches
from horizon to horizon
and the blue is more brilliant than lapis;
when the sun sinks down to the edge,
the show of colors is like a concert
hitting all notes of the passionate soul who watches.
The clouds swirl like oil paint on a canvas,
so much so that you can smell it,
freshly applied paint from an artist
making something out of nothing.
The sky fills this place with purpose,
and for now I will call it home.
-Chloe M. Lott
Poetry by Chloe Lott 