Coming into New England
Gliding above the cloudsAnd there below . . . hills and valleys
Festooned with gray-tipped tree streaks
An ice blue horizon bright with reflected sunlight
But oh, the green hills and mountains
All huddling close to the road
Soft rain falls in tiny clear drops
Air so cool and sweet, inviting intoxication
Along side the road a river meanders
Staining stones and spreading its arms wide
I know this placeIt seems to know me.
Oh, mercy. . . I know this place.
Hello. . .hello? Remember me?
I think so. Didn’t we meet once?
No--- But yet, I cannot deny
I know it and it knows me.
Oh, mercy. . .
Always Coming Home
Blue haze in the distance
Sand dunes sculpted in wind
Rainbows crowning mountaintops
Turquoise water lapping at sugared sand
Dark green fir and spruce
Burying their heads in soft gray clouds
A winding wet-black road
Where redbuds peek
Wide, muddy rivers and sparkling streams
My heart always says
I’m home—I’m always coming home.
There on the tips of my fingers—the tips of my eyelashes
Tiny, clear drops of rain
More than mist—less than showers
Miniature prisms unlocking rainbows
And for something just a little darker:
Makeshift days and cobbled nights
Of faded sun and fractured stars
Looking for something
I’m sure isn’t there—a phantom, a whisper
Perhaps only an echo gone now and silent.
And the air holds no memories.