Sometimes, I feel that I
But I am so happy that I cannot.
The trees’ branches wave gently
Against the bright new sky,
All the clouds have blown away to mistier lands,
Places that do not heed rain.
All the people are sad there;
They do not care.
But here –
The clouds are merely shade from the warm, passionate rays of the sun.
They do not cry.
No, they shine against the Indiana sky,
Before they head west to pitiless, flat prairies.
I look to the ground.
I feel the wind.
Soft, remembering days when I stood in its embrace, wondering about my future.
Now I live
Seeing old sights. Reminiscing over moss-covered homes and dirt-colored mansions.
Wondering about the present. Watching the grass wave and bend in the wind.
Soon the wind will send me home as well.
And I will cry.
But not now.
So exciting, it would be, to see Indiana out my window every day.
A day in the spring filled with scents of wildlife, quiet sound,
A morning in the summer, filtering through my window, the light . . .
A winter night, to look outside and see peaceful snow falling, falling . . . the reassurance of
adventures secretly penetrating me . . . falling . . .
Night is falling . . . I see through the dirty window of the van . . . vehicles traveling . . . why
should they leave . . . why?
The wind is blowing, on the highway, sunset’s blazing orange and pink, now I think sadly . . .
we’re going back.
I must meditate,
On pink mists rising
Above purple clouds
In blue skies reminding one of baby clothes,
Black, feathery trees falling back, behind our speed.
Otherwise I shall truly cry
Over possible things never done.
Photograph by Michael Howarth (2023)