How can we know we need a guide
When we do not know we are even lost?
We disregard the signs that would direct
Us back to the place we know and own,
A home set in among a handful of trees,
An open space we manipulate to look
Like our home of ancient memory.
A straight road stretches home, directing us
Through the deserts we thought were beautiful,
But whose beauty becomes lost in rocks
And cliffs made the same by dry winds
Which stripped scattered skeletons of their
Individuality. The desert’s drought endangers us.
We strayed into the desert, off the road
That will direct us home where rains
Replenish grass and trees. The beauty of growth
Renews us in its rejuvenating repetitions
Even as it calls us home from our nomadic wanderings.
The familiar melody of the larksong guides us home.