A strange realization: I do not miss
Philadelphia. Not one bit. Instead,
I miss the lake, and the immense bluffs,
and the impenetrable forests of pine,
and the villages of my youth; villages
so small and barren and inconsequential,
that on clear Sunday mornings in summer,
the lone church bell tolling, these
villages became my small kingdoms: sun,
endless lake, empty avenues of pavement
unfurled far as my heart could wander