These Bones

These Bones

My heart is quaking within my chest,
Riddling my bones with longing.
Scenes flash before my eyes;
Trees–forests alive with green.
Home.
Home.
It calls to me.
Home.
Home.
Where I yearn to be.
For my bones know what my head does not–
I don't belong here.
I was made of a different mold for a different time,
And my spirit finds no sanctuary here;
Not within these buildings,
Not among these people.

Give me my forests,
Give me the wildlands we no longer dare to wander,
Give me the freedom we no longer know.
Surround me with the forgotten sound of silence so that I may listen.
Bestow upon my eyes the sights of things half-forgotten from far off memories.
Cover my skin in dappled sunlight so that I may feel.
Embed my body with the scents of earth-heart and earth-bones.
Wash me with the rain that I may drink of it and taste life;
For all I have ever known has been dead professing to be alive.
And my bones know and remember something entirely different.
Of being earth,
Of changing and becoming anew,
Of rising from the dirt,
Of being a part of the circle of life;
And they say that this is death,
And they would know.