Passage to Massachusetts
New England holds its antique charms
for such a one as me.
The woods, the waves, the poets’ graves
call pilgrims seasonally.
The village green in Amherst dreams
of Dickinson and Frost.
The shades of these speak poetry
in rhymes sublime and soft.
But double Concords, Salems, too,
plus devious round-abouts
conspire to witch my waxing moods
and ground my happy muse.
A Rockies girl’s too straight and plain
to find contentment here
where compass gauge tilts wild and brave
Toward some unworldly sphere.
This sorcery’s born of Yankees dour
and Danforth’s wilderness.
It has no use for western guests,
so home tonight—or bust.