Down there, where I grew up, the land is flat.
The water and the beach bring people in,
But we lived bayside, where a bayou sat
Ringed off by reeds and houses and a bridge.
I drive through looking; all of it seems strange.
I lived with hills too long where we have been,
And slowly, what I think of normal’s changed,
Less reed and bayou, more of leaf and ridge.
This weird and dim flat land that was my home
Like any home you leave, looks different now:
I loved this place when it ‘belonged’ to me,
But that once-ownership’s passed on, somehow —
And viewed now, as an older, tired man
The flatness seems more me and less the land