There is a place not too far away that sparkles with peace and possibility.

There is a river in the bend shadowed by the sway of the trees.

A river cold with life, stark with serenity that gurgles with every ripple, a whisper.

A tree that shelters hope, shelters despair, and with every falling leaf, a lesson. 

The clouds are kind to us here, the air light and the dirt firm to support us. 

A branch reaches to encompass my seat, brushing over my hand a cicada clings to the leaf, legs wrapped around softly and securely, every little life a form of embrace. 

Here alive and vital is the growth of myself. 

The river flowing my thoughts, streaming through my veins, the trees my ideas, every small bird full of flight a new freedom, the dirt my foundation my morals to stand upon. 

This is the kingdom of the soul, the nature of the mind, rich in its natural state, where the wild things frolic and play with the happy and the distraught, the disturbed the confused, the hopeful the unheard. 

To the woman who carries her books everywhere, each a chance at a new life, a new surrounding, a new story to live for a day, let us return to our words. 

To the girl who bursts through the doors with energy to retrieve her notebook and pencil and runs full speed at the sight of the cherry light dancing upon the green speckles, knees red- from bending to record everything she sees and make words dance with life upon her paper, let us return to our poetry.

To the child whose eyes prick with the sight of anything kind and tender, brazen from stinging words rotten in  her father’s mouth, let us return to our art.

To the boy who solemnly sits, uncovered and embarrassed, to address a testimony at a trial called PE class, ears ringing from ‘say something’ ‘does he even know how to talk’ all his life, let us return to our books. 

You are not outspoken. You are not unusual in your quiet ways, Forever keep your nose buried in your books and your glasses slipping high from your bridge. You are the savior in a world that cannot stop talking. 

My love thy words, maybe it's not our fault you are used and abused so. Perhaps there is some saven light, stored in the bosoms of writers, the beautiful, the delicate liberators of our world. 

There is a higher meaning in the things above us, around us, and surround us. There is a higher order in the things inside us, comprise us, and devise us. Let us return. Take us not away in the rush of the today. Bind us not to the treasures of the ideal. Bring us back into our wilderness, let us receive new light and let us find our place among the wild.