Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Rain and snow, wind and grass.
I walk on the yellow grass
that died many days ago,
the wind moves across my face
and nothing seems to disturb the flow.
The sun hits my arms
they are warm to the touch.
I think of the freedom
that I miss so much.
On days the rain falls
it drips down my cheek.
To be home again with my children
is what I seek.
Yet the chances would be higher
for snow to fall to the ground.
My Corcoran nights are spent
watching stars without a sound.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

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Robert M.

Robert M. is a Mexican-Irish writer incarcerated in California.