Where is America? Where is it now?
It's there, oh, I know. Out where the plow turns the spring earth
in prelude of rolling swells of new grain.
In summer's wind glow its amber veins; a golden Earth.
Where is America? Why does it hide?
Only a while ago I would glide its gravel lanes;
honeysuckle and asparagus wild
by the road. Fully I was its child, and thus remain.
I hear my land in the sinewy note
from a red-winged blackbird's tireless throat in some near field.
From twentieth century fencepost perch,
his calls are breadcrumbs to aid my search till home's revealed.
Here's America. 'Twas here all along,
'though like a telescope's deep nightlong persistent stare,
my vision stays all keen, honed sharp and sure
to uncurtain the green, gold, azure; to breathe the air.
I searched the cellars, and searched the treetops.
Like a tractor's tow of ripened crop to harvest bins,
I pulled America from the chaos
and dressed it tightly 'round and across my wrinkling skin.
by Charlie Brown (aka seeknowbrown)