This Place

No, this isn't the country of new adventures, this
old country isn't the land of listlessness -
this is the country of peace,
of Quiet. of Silence.

This is the country of the flat flatlands - only
to be disturbed by fresh hills of rooted
vegetables of potatoes.

This is the country of backyard country-home
seances with the spirits of nature and relaxation.

This place is tuned to the hum of the tractor at
three in the afternoon.

This place is tuned to the hymn of the sun-birds
chirping in defiance of the night.

This place is the sunset at 6:37 in the afternoon
as the sun is beginning the orange-red fiery
descent of the stairs of the sky into the moon and
stars strewn-blanket of night.

This is the breath of enjoyment as the spring
breeze and the chill in the air nip at my fingers
under the shade of the spruce and pine trees.

No, this place, this country is not my birth
place, nor is it my final home, but this place,
this 6:37-in-the-afternoon-place, this is where

I've grown up.