Dreaming of home, my yesterplace.

Dreams of Yesterplace

I heard the rooster crowing in the frigid winter air,
Calling like an echo buried in my soul somewhere,
Calling up the memories of the dawns so long ago,
Summers of the peafowl and the winter's silent snow,

Dawnings when the cattle feaasted quietly on the lawn
Chewing up the flowers ere the rooster crowed at dawn,

Mornings when the earth itself was lifted up on ice
That fell beneath my footsteps like some donimoes or dice,

Mornings in the summer when the air was hot and dry
And pagan dances only left a hot and cloudless sky,

Morning when the winter lost its grip upon the hills
To the white of dogwoods and the gold of daffodils.

So on this winter dawn when all the trees are naked laces
I decorate my morning with my dreams of yesterplace.

Copr. 1997