p.s. I miss workin' in the yard
ears a buzz after mowing
too much for me to handle.
So much of which I beamed.
Trees, birds scattered
'cross the lawn of augustine,
hands in dirt growing and planting.
Barefoot and happy I was
in the little world I made for me.
Yet I miss the sense of home
my land bred. I am both uplifted,
uprooted, found and in search
of another's world with which to collide.
