Not nostalgia; simply reality past.
Your summer sunlight here is lovely,
but I need to sink into Ohio grass.
I need to lie in dappled shade
under a tree older than Oregon.
It's time to skinny-dip in the Kokosing
and as I dry, watch the hills turn orange and brown,
buggies crawling up them, creeping down.
It's time to survey the woods and fields, wrapped warm in heartland.
To almost-nap in persistent flowers.
And when I'm full of soporific peace,
wipe off my dress and wend back up the hill with big, reaching steps.
Large, Gothic buildings with cool, stone vestibules
wait for me, for my hands to run over rough-hewn edges.
But the stoops are smooth; come, sit and watch the people arrayed on the lawn,
see sport and study splay into dinnertime.
Climb crouching and dusty to the bell-tower with me
and watch the sunset ring.