Up ahead, mountains stand firm.
The names once remembered pass
with streets now foreign to me.
Houses line tree covered lanes where
dogs bark and kids point.
Its my town, the buildings in know
and shops I visited. They appear familiar
but are shadowed with gray from my past, like seasons,
they all blend into memory of what once was.
I pause by a field of wheat. Strong
winds create great waves like the
oceans I remember as a child.
Roger Singer 