When I come to visit you in Vermont
I feel that I am coming home.
I have never lived here,
but there is something
about the road from the airport
through woods, dappled in sunlight
and snow, the trees bending
under the weight of it.
Something about your strong house
at the end of the long drive,
the pond, the meadow, resting
under those blue hills in the distance.
It reminds me of Massachusetts,
the South Lincoln of my childhood,
the big barn, my horse waiting
to be curried and saddled after school.
Only you are not my father,
you are my son, and your wife
warms the house with French
bread rising and open arms.
Your children, grown now,
smother me with hugs,
and it is Christmas.
