Forgotten Ground Regained

Come Home

Pernille Bruhn
The elevator exudesan exclusive scentof grey linoleum floorand squashed soul.Our eyes, tired and tautfrom overexposureto straight lines,cross before we rushinto our own privatesteel and concrete box.Cloistered, behind plastic-insulated walls,invasive thoughts squabble;screens double; we pleadthe small, hand-held godsto sanctify our manic mindswith their mesmericmid-blue light. I dare usto dash out and touchthe nearest tree.Nest our nose to the Earth,and breathe, brazenly.Take off our shoesand say our prayers,patiently, let our gazeworship a flower’s face.Make a pilgrimageto the pond—the lake,river, ocean or sea.Go baptize our brainin giant grassesand bee balm, meadows,mosses, and pines. To rememberto let our deepest dreams dancebarefoot, begotten on the wild,forgotten ground.
Copyright © Pernille Bruhn, 2025
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