The morning commute
brings me past
fields of flowers
that I'll never know
the names of.
The time necessary
to wander aimlessly,
lying about in fields
referencing wildflower manuals
is off far in the distance.
So I continue
to drive
into town.
Watching all of the
pedestrian signals
high five themselves
in the windows of
the store front shops
that have not opened yet
at this early hour.
Thinking
about
my great escape.
April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.
High shelf poem, April Ridge. Thank you.
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