Forget about it
It is with all hope that I look forward to the rainbow's arch over a yellow sun-lit sky.
Green grass moist with dew gazed by black and white cows just like the ones that I used to see in the can of a Birch Tree powdered milk can at home.
There’s no rainbow.
Just a blood red sky at twilight foreboding an impeding downpour that's bound to drench us of water and of misery.
There's no green grass.
Only an artificial lime green grass on some elitist golf course where a caddy gets cursed Spanish style by a church skipping tycoon who'd rather tee off with his buddies on a Sunday morning.
There aren't any black and white cows.
After all we're not in Holland. There's no pasture to gaze. There's no grassland here for them to roam. No healthy grass for food.
Just a waiting axe from an over-eager butcher waiting to milk her dry and cook her for hamburger patties.
How long has it been since the rainbows arched, or the grass has been green or the cows been free to roam?
It already seems forever.
I miss this dead picture that somehow has encapsulated my childhood.
I miss my old self.