​
​Return to Old Ways


Since early childhood, I have dreamed I flew
above all, without the need for wings or plane.
I was beautiful, no longer plain.
No Cinderella cleaning out the flue.

I thought I’d travel by train, a cozy berth
or in a sailboat, fearless of rough seas.
How much better with open eyes to seize
this one moment, unique as my one birth.

I wanted to be clever, with a wry
humor, speak and hold an audience rapt.
But now I’m Martha Stewart crafty, wrapped
in papers, ribbons. Sourdough starts with rye,

ferments overnight. I knead in bread flour
to produce an elastic fragrant dough.
I do not hunt. I wouldn’t shoot a doe.
In springtime, I photograph wild flowers.

My city friends think country life’s a bore.
They don’t appreciate what I can hear
in wind and birdsong. I feel at home here.
No bears, no dragons, muggers, no wild boar.

This is my cathedral, my one holy
place. For land maintenance, I can hire
help and support the locals at higher
wages than they ask for. I am wholly

myself here. A cliché? Perhaps you’ll groan.
My return to old ways could mean I’ve grown.