Richard Bunch


The Native Returns

After so many winters, the summer’s
Sun swims these worn hands and brightens the wine-
Shouldered hills. Coming home, no more going
Far, far away, I bring these memories
To a living end, one to remember.

A horseshoe tops the door of knotty pine,
Still exiles fortune’s shade. Yet home’s steep climb
From the past presents some memoried signs:

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