Eva Sanchez

I.

​

If actions speak louder than words,

then this place is screaming.

 

II.

​

​​It is so quiet here, I think to myself.

It is then that a dial turned in my ear.

I can hear bird’s sonnets in the trees.

Only been listening to what’s near.

 

III.  

          

I want to go back there

and see it right.

When we backpacked through

to Beaver Falls one night-

 

I only stared and kept pace,

with a boy with blonde hair,

who paired sure-footed with grace.

And I would go everywhere

 

with him inside the garden.

But if I were to be left behind,

I might have seen my surroundings then.

I was too busy watching blonde hair

shine.

 

I do not remember canopy colliding

with skies,

but only his golden locks turn brown

with sweat.

Nor green creeks, instead his blue eyes.

My mouth constantly dry as his neck

glistened wet.

I was convinced I’d seen his gaze

before,

Stinging through clear sky blues.

Me, me, as he glanced back and every

time I see my muddied hiking shoes,

 

I want to go back there.

On my own, and walk.

To forget his nature, his hair

and the smile in his talk.