Going back now, I see the grove of pines,
the mountain climbing out of green to white
caps enclosed in clouds and flanked by snow.
The valley below is where I called home,
and even now I see the flower’s laugh
spread to the kids as they danced to the time
that was ebbed out by the cicada’s noise
enjambed with the whistling winds voice.
For too long I’ve been blind to needed change,
seasons and years have passed without a stage
as wondrous as the woods or mountain peaks.
I’m going back to see the snow, the heaps
driven to door by some magical force.
I’m going back to smell the aspen parts,
the pine bits, and the tufts of gathered flakes!