Frank Modica
If I could walk far enough,
find an old growth forest,
I’d dig my fingers into virgin soil
under a luxuriant canopy,
take in the smells of mulching leaves,
feel the soothing breeze through the branches,
but I don’t have enough time for an expedition,
unread books pile up on a desk,
unanswered emails swell in my inbox,
and a cold front is coming soon.
Before the weather turns,
before my cell phone chimes,
before another Amazon package arrives,
I put on a jacket, lace up my shoes,
hike to a city park down the street.
Along an asphalt pathway
I caress blue joint grass
sweet flag, purple cone flowers––
all the nature
I can accommodate on my excursion,
but it never is enough.
I eat a small handful of dirt
to feel the grittiness on my tongue
before I spit out a few sharp stones.