Crow and Flame

I am not parties and flashing lights,
or cocktails balanced in polished hands.

I am cozy sweaters,
turtlenecks pulled over cold fingers,
warm mugs cradled against my chest
like little hearth fires.

I am not movie premieres,
Saturday night dancing,
the latest fashion trends,
or fancy coffee orders spoken in another language.
I am not stark white shoes
untouched by earth.

I am barefoot in a creek,
mud between my toes,
sand tangled in my hair,
paint-stained clothes hanging from my frame.
Hand-me-downs too large for my shoulders,
sun-kissed freckles scattered like constellations
across skin that belongs outdoors.

I am folk music with fiddles crying through the trees,
berries picked warm from the vine,
“read the book, don’t watch the movie.”

I am the sound of frogs by the pond at dusk,
the call of a rain crow before a storm,
fireflies blinking in tall grass
like earthbound stars.

I am the sky reflected in still water.
The quiet kind of beautiful.
The kind you only notice
when you finally slow down long enough to look.

Like wildflowers,
I was never meant to grow in polished gardens.