the shadows of trees

It’s easy 

to get

lost in the grass

beneath the shadows 

of the trees

in the yard

of the house where 

I grew up. 

And I lie flat on my belly

and feel as though I

can melt into it. And it 

pulls me into its riptide

and holds me under,

tossing me around

until I do not know which

way is up. So I 

push forward

but it is only deeper 

into the murky 

depth and my lungs fill with 

soggy dirt. And it 

is only when I think 

I have drowned 

that I drift

upwards 

towards the surface 

and hear a sound 

that resembles you 

calling me to play. 

After The Port at Argenteuil, Claude Monet