welcome anytime

in the country, on the farm,

i could easily slip into idealism,

be so drunk off the local wine,

soak idly in the cold, dark river,

that i'd ask you something.

would you adopt me too?

such a feeling is an impulse,

one swinging breeze in the haze

of a mid June afternoon.

i'd be asking you for a story

rewritten, all misery edited

from the introduction, on:

only corn fields obscuring the view

and intense thunderstorms

to wash out the roads,

for the companion of a complaint.

foolish as i am, i wonder

how worries can entertain

the simplicity of your microcosm

for long, as anything else

may come and go on the highway

far, far from your home.

surely i idealize, as i do,

watching the fields of corn and tobacky

roll into soybeans and pastures,

blending into tradition, into

the dying art of working the land.

i see respect and dignity upheld,

like an elderly man holding the door

open for me, gingerly smiling,

when i visit your home.

it makes me want land of my own,

from your extended invitation

to stay on, and be welcome anytime.