Post by Mac on Apr 30, 2004 17:53:03 GMT -5
There is a place where the dirt-road ends
abruptly changes to black highway asphalt,
where some daffodils grow yellow and white,
not that passersby would notice.
Let us leave this crossroad behind,
turn right where the dirt blows red
and the road winds and bends,
up the hill, past the old graveyard
where the plastic flowers grow.
To the place
I’ve always had in my head
down by the old creek
where the willows still grow.
To the place I knew
before I lost the way.
