I love This Country

I love This Country
© Surazeus
2018 11 15

I love this country where my soul was born,
springing fully-formed from brain of its soil.
I consume food that transforms from its dirt,
so I dream weird mysteries of its landscape.

My ghosts who live in the house on the hill
wait for me to come and sit by the hearth
so they can perform my ancestral dreams
and reveal how I journeyed to this land.

The lamp in the window shines gold at night
so I can find old way through singing trees.
The door conceals vain hopes I never speak
though I pass through its frame ten thousand times.

My ghosts follow me on lush river shore
to translate weird thoughts of sunlight on water
which reveals face of the woman I love
so I can find her in the city crowd.

I love this country where my mind was formed,
woven from the roots of its trees and vines.
I plunge my fingers into its moist soil
and dream of molding metal from its lust.

My ghosts teach my hands how to reshape matter,
transforming trees into carts, boats, and homes,
so I multiply myself in new children
who populate harsh wilderness with farms.

The frail shards of pottery I baked from mud
preserve my hopes with fractured voice of words.
In the large stone hearth I bake apple pie
for my feast with friends in the ruined church.

My ghosts behind each tree in silent woods
wait for me to travel onward again,
seeking new country beyond bright horizon,
for I love this country where I was born.