Never-ending fields

Unnatural green, bright; far from the dull sage I’m used to. The tips glow yellow from sunlight rather than dehydration. I reach out, inches, to cop a feel, wringing my fingers through, gently. Warm on my fingers, warm from the sun, soggy from the dew-I’d never felt something so contradictory in its being. The blades blow asynchronously, where my palm lays, almost mocking the ever-still grass I once prayed would resemble this blaring green.

Cold winds push the grass halms up to my cheekbone, tickling where it lay flat. I stop the wringing, sliding my fingers out of the dampness to raise myself off the blotches of lime. I reach my cheek, wiping away the bits of soil and wetness as I form my surroundings in my mind.

My eyes rise to the sky in exasperation, I can’t recall the last time I laid eyes on such a vibrant blue, in fact I can’t recall the last time I laid eyes on a clear sky. Clear. So very clear, no fog to dampen its color, no clouds to dethrone its lush cerulean.

I blink, my eyes fall once again. And I finally take in the expanse of blinding lime.

A large pasture of land lays before and below me as I notice the high mound I perch upon. Around the hillock is tall greenery, weeds and grass that pass my knees where I sit. I look over the twisting grasslands and the consistent vibrancy as they dip into hills and past the occasional tree, further and further, meeting no end.

I shut my eyes, relishing in the dark.

What is this? So bright, so very bright but what is it?

I take 3 deep breaths, preparing myself for the overload of light the fields reflect from the sun’s flares, a hot, blinding mass I couldn’t even turn to had I wanted. Drenching the land in color.

And then I open them again, and I am at once flushed with color, I haven't been acquainted with. I squint, looking down the hillside I sit upon for something recognizable in the fields, and to my delight, I notice familiar plants in the distance. Among the ever brash green, is flora of many sizes and pigment, bright, bright pigment.

The first I notice is the chrysanthemum’s laying beautifully and proud in my peripherals, a shameful contrast to the ones I attempted to grow on brazen soil. The next is the many carnations of every color. Cantaloupe orange and rich purple surround me in patches, the yellow carnations sit singularly and separately.

Many of the flowers in the earthly bouquet are foreign to me, and are left unnamed. I appreciate the ones I recognize and gawk at the ones I don’t and their persistent color.

A gust of cold blows once more and I am once again reminded of the lush greens as they blow gently across my knees.

I forego any movement just to acknowledge the unbeknownst before me.

A mystery of how I got here and another of what it is.

I breathe the cool air once more and lay my eyes onto a singular buttercup. Plump in color and confidant where it sways in the winds.

Another gust, and I rise to my feet, swaying suddenly in disarray before I look beyond me once more.

I know I mustn’t stay idle on the hillock. And with another inhale of clean air I step on the very grass I’d admired a moment ago.

One step after the other and I start off the hillock making my way through the seemingly never-ending fields.