The Strangeness of Home

STILL

Going West to East, the flatness unnerves me, at first.

We fly past wintry fields, the roads lined thick

with brittle birches leaning, like dried brushes in a jar.

I wonder at the plainness of the cold, hard land,

and spy the beauty that will always be.

The air crackles with newness, glistens with ice.

The house is a blanket of smells: rib roast, green beans, potatoes baked twice.

On the beach, the sand is still frozen in sheets.

Our flat stones still skip, the murky inlet still gleams.

We still chase the light, and holler downwind.

It's strange to be home. We'll come back, again.

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