Like a willow tree

Homesick
If it is possible to be happy one place
And miss another
Then it is possible to see one place in front of your eyes
Though you are walking in the other.

If it is possible to be walking the dusty dry streets
While walking along lamp-lit wet sidewalks,
Then it is possible to lie on a board and futon dreaming of rice paddies
While lying on a too-soft mattress dreaming of evergreens

If it is possible to go to a market and buy fresh produce
While buying canned beets,
Then it is possible to play among bamboo
While playing among a bunch of cold-weather plants.

If it is possible to love one place
And love another
Then it is possible to sing of both
And never forget either.

I think poetry is like a willow tree--or the other way 'round. Both lyrical, free, flowing...if I had to be a tree I would be a non-native willow in Seattle rather than a proud native Douglas Fir. And I'd grow in a yard of folks who didn't care about native or non-native plants, but only because I'd be a tree. If I were a person I'd be in between on the issue.
Saro