loyd.net

The mimosas are in bloom.
Has it really been so many years?
Years—
How much, how little
Has changed.

I remember walking under the mimosa tree,
Past the roses and crepe myrtle,
Longing for the future;
Feeling at home.
Now I drive past the mimosas
In an alien place,
Still longing for the future—
Never feeling at home.

Somewhere I still have
A fragile fragment
Plucked from that tree of years ago.
Now, that place seems as alien
As this one.

The mimosas are in bloom.
I still don't know why that matters
So much.

That Land A Sense of Place The trees are raining