Where

Head down

scuff the gravel

cool between tall trees

step out into the bright heat

of home perched alone

on the crisp hilltop.



Head up

rustle ripe timothy

growing wild, hiding home

though you stretch up tiptoe

under that same sun to see

then step through and crunch across.



Straight ahead

driving by on the highway

tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .

I do not follow that now paved road

nor look for overgrown paths to follow

just in case

the house stares back at me.





(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)