Going to miss these fields so green with vines;
Valley floor growing those yields of wines;
Hillsides brushed with rows planted east and west,
Like a plein-air painting in its warm naturalness.
The town that holds history close to its vest
Welcomed a stranger from East Coast to West.
He came here as a shadow of a former self;
Locals helped him to build rung by rung
A ladder for climbing from his personal hell,
And to perceive of new songs yet to be sung.
He leaves a bit fuller, more confident now;
A tad more clarity and color in his view.
To keep the ladder in use is the goal now;
And to cultivate a landscape different and new.
His nights now appear a little less black;
So, it would appear quite certain he will be back.
6-3-2015 (Sonoma, CA)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem