When I am home, I crave the world, adventure, romance.
When I am traveling I think of the bamboo outside my window,
moving in the breeze, catching the light of the sun.
I wonder if I filled the bird feeder enough to last until I return.
In the forests I am content
until I think of the great mountain peaks
how the hills rush down and away into rivers and valleys.
In the Spring I marvel at the beauty of the flowers, then I remember Fall
with the cool, crisp air and golden leaves.
If I visit the city I think of the farm; of the rich orange
clay and the horses on the hill.
Of the sunrise that chases the fog away and gives life
to all growing things.
When I drive to the farm and smell the
sweet smell of cut hay,
I think of the sea.
I picture the waves sighing across the sand, and the
birds that wheel far above
The colors of the water before and after a storm,
I feel the sea oats under my hand and the sun on my face
as I walk the cracked boards over the dunes
to the powdered sand, to the damp sand, to the shells and the waves.
It is raining now, my window is cracked and I can hear the trains
in the distance. The city is seldom quiet, just like the ocean.
But if you asked me which place was more home
to me than the other, I don’t think I could truly answer.