Coming home from up high
where I waded motionless
in the breeze blowing down
from volcanoes over bubbling
mud, a boiling lake
where I loved life so much I
worried every hour of losing it.
Now I am back in the land of
man-made things—
moss from still ponds and
twigs still stuck on my shoe
Home where throngs frenzied
with goals clog the streets,
their constant motion drugging
the air
where every place I go
too many got there first
where I sleep pinched
without sight though the moon
shines here too big
and white.
