A LAND CALLED SOMEWHERE

Flowers stand tall in
this land called
somewhere,
gently flowing, never
toppled by the wind.

Lying on a hill in the
midday sun, in a place
too sweet to forget but
too difficult to remember,
I look hard at myself.

The burden of honesty
in this place is light as
a butterfly, the cerulean
sky as inviting as
my mother’s arms.

Nothings were something,
nowhere was somewhere,
the travel time tolerable—
a mere cost for
realizing my dreams.

©2022 Steven Barto

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