There is something incomprehensible
about sitting at a desk
after a week long, seven day
sojourn into paradise.
The skin on the back of your fingers
looks younger—the color of acorns,
and your hair still contains
fine grains of sand.
Sunlight illuminates the pages in front of you
as the wind shuffles from page to page
finally arriving at one chaptered “Nostalgia”.
You can feel you really aren’t so much
at your desk at all, but a foreign land
where it is always one slow, hot summer.
Sebastian Sandok
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/between-glades/
