Prairies In Summer
First you were a mountain. How could you be so cold even though you were so close to the sun? You stood there proudly, a sight for my eyes that had grown tired of only looking out to the horizon. You were strict with your strength and sometimes unforgiving to the ones who’d only come to admire you. You always stood with your head high and your shoulders squared braving any element that the Earth had to throw at you but inside of you, it was only dark caves and deep crevices that no one had the spirit to venture through. They weren’t courageous and tall like you. Although, I have a fear of the unknown and everything I can not see, I wanted to see what you were made of anyways, to find precious stones and pools of water that showed me your reflection.
When I returned, it was spring and somehow you were a hill. A break for my eyes that had gotten sad from looking for other mountains to compare you to. You sat in a way where you could see everything from any direction. You had softened over time. You had grown wiser. Your body hunched over itself in a way where i looked like you were growing into yourself. There were new parts of you for me to explore, valleys that were hidden when you were a mountain. Valleys that other people had been to before I came back home to you. You were safer to approach then. When you were a hill, there were many parts of you that made people curious. Parts of you that were filled with beauty and things that we thought we could only get in heaven, and parts of you that were dangerous, murky, and hard to navigate. I didn’t know what to do but leave again.
For the last time, you were a field. You laid flat covered in tall grasses and medicines. It was summer time and butterflies returned with me. You were no longer there to shade my eyes from the grievances I’d seen on my way back to you. The sun glared so brightly that I was forced to look down and see just how amazing you’d become. Life sprung from you now. There had been moments of joy and laughter and magic here and it made you healthy. You spread out for miles sharing everything you had to offer with the world and whoever knew how valuable you were. Your dirt was soft and comforting. You had become a bed of nurturing. You were not the mountain I had first met. I decided to stay.