Home - Sonnet 47

The road to Burbank is less trod upon

Than county lines in cobblestone and sweat,

Perception laced with vanity; and yet,

Though no originality is gone,

The hills and plains did not transfer their air,

For it may not survive the desert heat

Or cliffs and coastal pebbles on your feet,

The sullied earth, the wheatgrass in your hair;

But it is not forgotten, that is, home,

And roads and stories all along the string

Back to it; therein lies the lovely thing

About our lives we tend to overthrow:

It always waits for us, the place we grow,

No change, no move, no matter where we go.