They say light falls different here.

I say that, too.

Look across the cold black lake the bare branched trees stiff in the frozen air.

The morning is edged with frost and crackled.

The bus rolls on and I lean and look above and trace the sky path of geese sailing toward their new spring.

Yes, the light falls different here.

Lower, closer to the ground.

I was a girl when the slipped stream of adventure calling carried me West.

I am a woman now, coming home.

When I was a girl I knew this light and I knew these trees.

I knew the red brick, the stone.  The earth.

I am a woman now, but I remember.

The photo was taken from the window of a Greyhound bus in Washington DC.  Having spent my childhood in Pennsylvania I left for college in Nebraska at seventeen and headed to California after graduation.  I hadn’t visited the East Coast for almost thirty years.  On that bus, on that cold March morning, I was overwhelmed by nostalgia and a longing for home.  I tried to capture those feelings in this poem.

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