A Poem for My Home
I’m home in my own little patch of heaven,
a simple clump of cool peaceful green
encircled by blue horizons and air
interrupted by cream-colored concrete
toasted warm by the vibrant sun
and chilled in the pale orange evenings.
From its skies shower fragrant drizzle
that stir like the poems of Luis Dato,
or buffet like storm and lightning
worthy of the compatriots of intrepid Barlin.
Thus here, scattered among its days
are brave heroes and wise men born
By its lakeshores today as long ago
a determined people carves out a living
as they would a kingdom,
themselves prince and princesses
and lords and ladies with castles on the hill.
They would sit barefoot in the dewy summer grass
and watch at the end of day, their children, the slow,
steady flowering of their dreams.
Then shades of evening roll over
the oranges yellows and purples of a fading sunset
darker now under the waxing moon,
at the moment in shadows never alone,
in this little heaven we have known.