Calling Back Home

My need to go back to another time and place, where there is a place for that, tiny flake-

~ Calling Back Home ~

 

 

How could we write,

About a yon snowflake in winter,

That dazzles the soul with its pearly tips,

And falls from the swaying branches with a lust like a young chap,

Pining after a young woman, with his chest a flutter,

While the small flake shivers,

As it makes its way slowly towards the Earth-

Just like a lady.

 

And when I see that,

Beautiful, sweet, flake of snow-

I know that I am,

Pining after a world that I no longer own,

Which used to own me-

So beautiful were its loving clutches-

Like snow . . .

This small, diminutive flake,

Trembling like a chap of young,

Speaks to me,

It calls me,

Wanting me to come back with it,

To another time and place,

Because . . .

Who has ever seen a snowflake in the spring, the heat, around the mongrels,

I have never seen one . . .

Forsooth,

Because . . .

It doesn’t belong here-

And nor do I.