The Native Returns
After so many winters, the summer’s
by Richard Bunch
Sun swims these worn hands and brightens the wine-
Shouldered hills. Coming home, no more going
Far, far away, I bring these memories
To a living end, one to remember.
A horseshoe tops the door of knotty pine,
Still exiles fortune’s shade. Yet home’s steep climb
From the past presents some memoried signs:
Eucalyptus odors, moss-ancient oak-
Once were these lost. Now nostalgia’s sired
Eyes find poppies on a hill’s leafy bed.
Such roots consume me, for they are love’s yoke
Where all’s remembered as strangeness desired.
After so many winters, winter’s dead.