Backwoods

Blue paint chipping
Off of tired walls
Hardwood floors worn and rugged
From years of little feet
Scurrying across them

Apple pies half eaten
Left on counters
To be picked at
By dirty little fingers
Sugar to spoil dinners

The twang of bluegrass
Static and sweet
Humming out the old Victrola 
As my feet shimmy
Across the kitchen floor

Your hands around my waist
Your body sways in rhythm
With mine
And the sun beams in the windows
And the wind blows through the trees
Even the sounds are silence

I have mistrusted the concrete jungle
I deserve something more