There must have been other colors
but I remember the trees clothed
In the dull drab browns and greys of winter.
The color of death.
One stone then the next.
The fallen trees. The sound of water.
The trash of 100 years ago.
The land that once sustained other peoples
Is welcoming me in, making it hard to climb out.
I do not dare return,
not for the fear of finding the land
changed
But for the fear of finding everything so
small.