Homeward Lost 

Never again know now I'll never feel 

The glow of dawn acrross the winsome fields

nor touchless majestic scrunch of old moss

on scrub oak's gentle forest floor, 

or milkweed pods beside old doors. 

Nor the splendid aroma's drift of good 

in breeze not seen or felt to hang 

like gasp of its real eyes on lake sunlit, 

like great ephemeral quiet in mimic 

of its frozen wintery opposite, 

or the gusts of Fall or bursting sun of Springs unsung.