you are clear across this beaming country
smiling in the Great Plains
crying from the Great Lakes
and you sift through sugar packets
in a diner named daytime
asking and asking
for the sweetest one
and the filthy snow of Maine
is drying into
the leafy gutters of the Carolinas
and Washington is singing
over to Idaho
to get out into the springtime
and dance in the rain
(which always comes without
any warning at all.)
I sit here alone
in a house that proudly claims
that it is a hundred years old
with creaky staircases
and loose hinges
that choose the most silent times
to speak.
And find that indeed
I love the differences
between California and the newest of Englands
one is sweet and wooden and old
like a crackling record
lilting and laughing
and loving its music
and one is a warm day
found in the month of March
that licks the dullness
off of our skin
and allows California
to peer right in.