Letters Home (I)
It is a recognition
That shape of the mountain
Against an open sky
Clearer than ice
Where the snow lies still
Against the February blue
Of the sun.
I stand, and gaze
At the folds of the sea
Where it spreads its curve up
To the horizon.
Blindfold, I come
To my land
Senseless, deprived
Until my eyes meet this sky.