Travels
I grew up a nomad, wondering as I went,
With backpack over shoulder and shoes well spent.
I've seen Mesopotamian graveyards where dust fell from the Ishango Bone,
And trudged Mediterranean shores where Nap found the Rosetta Stone.

There's nothing like old Stonehenge at the midwinter heirophany,
Or late noons at Giza, shadows long like Modiglianis.
The snowflakes carved in Moscow are each a precious little fractal.
Who's tasted cacao where Aztecs toasted their own Quetzocoatl?

Let me be your tour guide when you must see an eclipse
Where Roman soldiers, millennia past, met one with quivering lips.
I can lead you down the halls where grand old Bach played a sforzando,
And show you bars where commoners danced to some ragtime scherzando.

Yet for all this I'd always have my stomach gripped acute;
For, while wandering thus, I want my home, square and minute:
A handsome country cottage on a land once some fresh homestead
Where a frontiersman's family toiled and slept and dined on cornbread.

There's gaunt and hardy phantoms known as Pinus sabiniana,
And when it's clear and moonless, we'll find Artemis and Andromeda.
With spring, the flowers burst into their complementary colors,
With snow, we'll read inside like interdisciplinary scholars.

I have witnessed Indian battles of opposing orthopraxies;
I have walked where Pharisees blew on their trumpets in hypocrisy;
I have trekked Great Plains once known by warriors on their appaloosas;
I've stayed in cities different as Hong Kong and Tuscaloosa.

But let me walk in thickets of buckbrush and manzanita
(Although a worldly snack will do, some hummus spread on pita)
My home is under oak trees donning Phoradendron villosum,
Living near fields, streams, foxes, deer, and that fiendish little possum.