Can motion be home?
The answer is no!
I am not one whit wishful
of roaming, of flying.
Travel is exile.
It is here that I roam,
that I saunter:
mountain, Valley, and
shore,
la Sainte Terre.
Not Bon Voyage but here:
where sunrise is
a welcome:
things growing large,
things that are concrete.
Sunrise speaks to dreams:
of things to come,
of sun-filled pine hills,
of light-drenched ponds,
of belonging some place,
without which it's dark.
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