The poem
In the slant of the sun on the country-side, Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; And a rugged old man in a thatch door Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy. There are whirring pheasants, full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves. And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly. ...No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again.
The Auburn Hills It is so important to touch the ghosts of memory lost in the auburn hills of yesterday's yesterday. That was a place where my aunt and uncle walked, where my cousins and I fought and played together. That was a place that lives within me, no matter where I put my shoes or shave my face, breathing through my every breath. I am not much different now from then, except older and fatter, yet I still…
Read the whole commentThe Auburn Hills
It is so important to touch
the ghosts of memory
lost in the auburn hills
of yesterday's yesterday.
That was a place where
my aunt and uncle walked,
where my cousins and I
fought and played together.
That was a place that lives
within me, no matter where
I put my shoes or shave my face,
breathing through my every breath.
I am not much different now from
then, except older
and fatter, yet I still
hear their voices chatter.
Love in these hills is
not the color of the rose,
no matter what color
that rose is.
It is here where love is
known in its every face
yet so distant, it's a land whose
name inspires unknown visions.
I would like to touch them
once again, to see their eyes
look at what it is
that we've become,
but they have drifted
into the auburn shadows
of those distant hills that I remember,
their quiet voices softly calling
in the silent thunder of my heart.
jwtaylor1
07/07/05
AM