Wild Place

There is a wild place within our city

where cattails grow and

morning-glory spreads and

yellow irises bloom at the

edge of a bubbling stream.

Clumps of wild grass turn golden brown

in late summer and blackbirds

ch-ch-chee in the Russian olives

hanging over the trail.

 

In my heart is another refuge,

a place unannounced on Facebook,

uncalendared, undeclared.

Here my native self romps

and squeals and sings 

while swinging higher and higher

until her toes touch a cloud,

and when she lies back against the wind,

it magically holds her up.