With bleeding gums from scurvy, liced and scabbed we,
the sea-sick, found our way to freedom from the belly
of the ships and built our life in hardship of the soil.
We fenced, we ditched, we broke the stones from fields.
The summers were too hot, the winters way too cold, but we
prospered and our children grew to be the backbone of the
west. But not for me. I longed for what I left, for woods and
lakes, for sound of brooks, for taste of apples and
for the language that my daughters cannot speak. It’s time
to rest, but I wonder how I can accept that I will
soon be buried in this soil, that differs from my blood.
February 17, 2017