Here in this land
where harvests really happen,
a long way from home,
this land where I now stand
and watch the gathering of grapes,
the press of olives just picked,
the harvest of gourds
that wear withering leaves like capes.
Strange that something so foreign
to my coordinates throws me back
to where I began,
from harvest years to dawn.
A city child steeped
in one country's history
with hair and skin of another,
people in search of a land to dream deep.
And how those city ways
shaped me, formed the curve of my spine,
gave me the resolve needed for what I faced,
left me with enough for all my days.
