I always believed

my children would belong to green.

To air that moved gently.

To mountains holding up the sky

like something sacred.

I saw them barefoot—

blackberry-stained fingers,

palms scratched by brambles,

learning the language of trees

before they ever learned fear.

Bald eagles carving wide circles above them.

Seals lifting their quiet, curious faces

from cold salt water.

Freckles blooming across their noses

like proof of a life lived outdoors.

I held that picture for years.

It felt promised.

Instead—

the air here presses heavy and wet.

The sun does not warm; it punishes.

Doors stay shut.

Curtains drawn.

Seasons blur into one long endurance.

The sky stretches flat and endless,

offering nothing to lean against.

Roads shimmer, bare and blistering.

Even the wind feels tired.

And grief surprises me—

not loud,

but constant.

Grief for the forests they do not run through.

For the autumns they will not feel

snap and turn around their shoulders.

For the winters that teach stillness.

For spring arriving like forgiveness.

Will those landscapes become

only stories told at bedtime—

“Once, there were mountains,”

as if I am speaking of something extinct?

Or will I gather this ache in both hands

and let it harden into something useful?

Will I be brave enough

to answer the place

that has been calling my name

for years—

and bring them home

to the green

I still carry in my chest?