LITMIR.BIZ

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      a flower turning

      to the solar path;

      all day long.

      You can almost

      hear it in every

      sound; just enough

      to know that this

      new space is not

      “IT.”

      Dorothy took

      it with her and

      used “IT” as a beacon

      to escape the wonders

      of Oz.

      Moses had “IT”

      just behind his eyes

      so he could know the

      place he had only

      dreamed of.

      Indians and

      dinosaurs longed

      for “IT” before they

      died and would

      walk an aimless

      outward journey

      by feeling an

      inner trek to the

      place that was

      the origin of their

      very own self.

      Columbus

      set out to

      find the

      place of his

      discovery

      hoping it would

      mirror the “IT”

      of what he

      knew—

      amplified with

      untold riches.

      You get older

      and the longing

      for the remnants

      of place grows

      deeper, richer, and

      stronger with each

      passing moist

      breath of

      time apart.

      The skin can

      feel “IT” in an

      instant, the nose

      knows “IT” with

      one whiff.

      We search our days

      for similar warmth and

      familiar tastes; a fireside

      seat and the hint of

      cinnamon and clove.

      The sun can

      slant itself

      in just the same

      way; the air can

      blow itself in

      a long known

      fashion. That

      then becomes

      “IT” and we

      have arrived.

      What is our life

      but an ongoing

      and defiant shaping

      of all that is

      into all that

      used to be.

      This is

      where the

      old can touch the

      new; the

      past can

      change our

      future.

      We begin ourselves in

      a place called home;

      a place that

      has made all the difference.

      It gave us

      the lexicon of

      being that we carried

      and used the remainder

      of our days

      to make sense

      of all that is.

      Place is the

      kind of thing

      that gets under

      the nails, behind

      the ears, and

      between the toes.

      It follows you

      everywhere—

      lending just a

      hint of displacement

      and yearning toward

      the sun of home—

      a flower turning

      to the solar path;

      all day long.

      It Is Here

      It is here

      that the flatter lands

      and ambling slopes

      turn upward toward

      the sky. A red shale

      mountain along the

      edges of the mountains;

      an inkling of rocks

      climbing out of the earth.

      A true foothill

      of and in its own right.

      There is a stark

      and yet subtle rise

      at just this place

      along the river where

      the Green Hill and

      River Roads meet.

      Each day I pass this

      spot there is a feeling

      in the center of my me

      that says, “This is

      where one place becomes

      another. This is the place

      of uniqueness among a somewhat

      feeling flatland of sameness

      in life and degree.”

      It excites the soul

      to notice such things.

      Delight floods the heart

      directly from the sensibility

      and collaboration grown

      from the mixed arrangement

      of the eyes and mind.

      Beauty is born by an

      inner capturing of the visible

      disturbance in the line of

      sight somehow translated

      to mean something beyond just

      that thing it holds in view.

      From this point forward

      the

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