Dreams

The wind has changed directions.

The air is brisk,

as brisk as it was on that first walk.

The sun hits my face as it has before;

different as the aura I now have.

My home bares the grounds in which

my roots grow.

The seasons are changing

As much as the people wondering.

The door is not open but a welcome mat

is on the front door step.

There is a figure standing in

a field of green;

Unrecognizable and in a space to call

Their own.

The seasons are changing

but things always grow.