This is not the fight I had imagined—we stand like the trees as the wind blows our heads but not our feet. I had dreamed of a day when we'd rush like a million rain drops or an army of children with hopes in their heads and rockets in their hearts. I dreamed that we'd be somewhere near the stars by the time we were fifty, and the earth would be our resting spot. But we've made the field our bedroom painting, and our clutter our home. When the porch is swept we sing for a day, and forget the tune when the buzzing of birds fills our brain.
I'm off to the snow on the tops of hills; I don't care if there's nothing but sand. My feet can still walk when it's cold—the air might chill my face, but the tears will keep my eyes from freezing, and the hairs of my head will grow to keep my ears warm. My legs will shout praise for the chance to use their strength, and my heart will pump faster knowing it's been given a job to do. My shoulders will point forward in the steady, sure march; my lungs' hearty breaths will sound the pace. Every joint, part, and limb will eagerly perform, and my hands will be opened for others to join.
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