still bathed with dew,
in these the sunlit lands.
My toes touch the soil and soak in the cool,
still fresh from snows,
in these the sunlight lands.
My face is washed by winds,
still lithe and young.
Young before they will be
burdened by salt,
heavy with rain.
For yes, I see it far out on the plains,
the gathering herd of darkness,
that stretches out, like an inverted land.
From which pours forth,
the heavy armies of the rain.
I stop and look,
and stand, my feet growing new roots,
as my gaze is raptured out
by what lies ahead for this day.
The streaming soaking,
the howling rage of hammered hail.
The birds will hide in their trees,
cower beneath the old barn eaves.
Out across the expanse,
a sea of grass to cliche a phrase,
ripple with waves though it does,
seethe with tides though it must,
crest in August before the harvest it will,
invisible hands smooth and stroke,
the surface of the stalks.
Poor reeds that are bent,
by the mass of twirling air.
There is now a fog of quiet,
save the weeping of the wind.
And before the sweep of this,
an act of nature, in the play of God,
I am small beyond small,
and feel myself shrunk like the sparrow
that so shortly sang a hymn to the dawn.
You brought me here to savor your native earth.
Playfully heedless I spun my steps across
in celebration of it's bright.
Though now my eyes are tender,
but the coming of this second night.
I turn to touch my eyes upon the old home,
porch washed white, roof baked black,
and instead my face is pressed into your chest,
my arms curled around your back.
There embrace carries me to safety's sake.
In these, the once, and future, sunlit lands.