RETURN TRIP
The recognition comes as it always does—
slowly. One feels a sense of surprise
to find not all has changed: the blue of miles
above the snow-rimmed clouds of old volcanoes,
the tireless browns still ploughed to greening fields,
the red tiled roofs that accent time between.
The twenty years move slowly into place.
With eye as brush and sun as palette, a full
perspective emerges: as long ago today,
as near to far. The wish reflects a view
almost transparent. Past and distance blaze,
caught in a foreground of light, then shift.
The darkness grays, thickens. One tastes
salt rain on the wind that blows through the mist.