Here the trees grow thick, retire with dignity.

Winter floods us with precious water, and we dance outside

barefoot, without freezing.

The sun streams through the window and I am warm under covers,

dreaming of an ideal that slips through my bloodstream on its own accord

if i focus in, the vision escapes my grasp. and blurs.

i want to write a poem about the dirt that grew us.

The people of the valley, passionate and stubborn,

the activists who taught us, the films on walk-outs and choices.

the teachers who raised us, educated us to speak kindly. speak out.

our parents who sent us Elsewhere to get A Good Education.

how now do i live?