My backyard

Im exhausted bones rattling, soul whispering for a nap but Im still here, staring at my backyard like its the last quiet place on Earth. This isnt just grass and wood; its my sanctuary, my battlefield, my secret hideaway. That rocking chair? Its not just wood its a throne of weathered peace, waiting for me to collapse into its slanted arms, to let the skys gray sighs fill my lungs. The decks worn planks? Theyve cradled my tears, my triumphs, my silent screams. Look past the shed, past the gnarled tree thats seen more than I have, past the wild grass that refuses to be tamed. Thats not just land its a canvas of quiet rebellion, a patchwork of forgotten dreams and stubborn green. Its not perfect, but its mine. Its where Im tired, but Im not done. Im not leaving. Im just resting my eyes, letting this place breathe me back to life, one slow, rocking breath at a time.

Comments