A Silent Adieu to a Country Home



Chill of spring winds snaking through me,
“It’s not your place any more.”
As I sit on the bench under the
Bus stop arch, waiting for a late

Bus to take me over the hills,
With three years of my life
In hand; and today I see a
Young woman moving in that house

Beyond the wide rice field. Now, she
Raises her hand to her forehead as if
Trying to see somebody more clearly,
Waiting, expecting… What, then,

Is the meaning of life on earth
Without this comforting ritual--a house
Awaiting the return of those who belong to it?
Farewell, country home, I will visit you
                                   often in dream!