I miss

Poems
Writing

I miss
The effort and ritual 
Of building a fire
To rest in front of and read 

I miss
The trails only a step away,
A dark-brown carpet of spiky chestnuts 

I miss
Sunshine, bright and green,
Reflecting off the oak forest across the valley

I miss
Easy mornings
Of fried eggs and buttered toast with jam
Enjoyed in silence at the wooden table

I miss
Drawing and painting,
Listening to an inside voice that says, Yes,
Not, What’s the point

I miss
Who I am 
When not aligned with heat and quiet and trees