You don't have to travel

Originally published on Art.Love.Nature.


You don’t have to travel

My descriptions can transport you to valleys filled with mist where the songs of the birds are swallowed by the wisps of water and vine that hang between trunks and branches.

Or to the wide open plains where rolling clouds and thunder diminish your problems to the grains of sand being whipped around by gusts of wind into mountains that ants could not move in a thousand years.

I can stand you under a waterfall with crystals in your hair, washing the dust and grime and worry into the eddies and pools downstream, leaving only glistening droplets of rainbow, shining in the sun.

My words can carry you out to sea where the forlorn call of the gulls will pull your thoughts to shore – where your windbeaten cheeks will burn from salt and tears because you haven’t been home for so long.

My stories can pluck you from your comfortable nest, and pitch you on the precipice of destruction where the deep scars of the mining fields have left so many homeless and fatherless to decorate the fingers of a few.

I can show you barren hills filled with blunted stumps of leftover trees, broken in their service of creating more cardboard boxes to transport toys and gadgets and more-of-everything, please.

I can dump you in a side street together with all the trash that was all someone wanted long ago, willing to give up the valleys and the trees, the rivers and rolling plains for a moment of shiny new plastic and distraction from being here and now.

I fear that someday, my words will be the only means left to envelop you in sweet smelling grass under an expansive starlit sky, to bring you back to a place where the value of everything isn’t determined by a price written on a tag.

I stand here, desperate, offering only my words while I still have heaven to describe, praying that it isn’t too late to curb the madness that is tearing us from this one and only home.

You don’t have to travel – I offer you these words. Take them, and see, and make something new. Live and love and share your own words so we can still have these vast plains to meet in tomorrow.