High circling hawk was clue:
This is your home
My kinsman true.
Allspice bush in cedared yard
Gave evidences too
Green would and blue,
The red-tail, far too far to hear
Its brittle cry
(But at my hone outside the window high,
Persimmon perched, we’re eye to eye–
Same hawk, same cry.)
I leave the hawk behind
And walk the porch to door unscreened.
The whitewashed walls glow with their inner light,
The khaki, tan, and white,
The well-washed cotton green,
The woods a screen
Of all we’ve left behind.
It is your footprint that I trace–
House and hawk and light and door unscreened
The trabiated transom same
As at y own fond home.
Is each you here and find,
The portal arch of turnings,
Living with the dead and yet unborn,
To mirror still this day of origin,
The now of all-time, past and yet to come.
All time is one.