Dave Bonta's "Homesick" is a tiny poem about missing a place you've left behind. The speaker starts calmly, even gracefully, describing the ache as "a green thing" and "a simple music." Green suggests something living and growing, so the longing feels natural rather than harsh, almost like a plant that keeps coming back. The line that it "plays well on a violin" takes this further: the sadness is something beautiful that could be turned into a song.
Then the tone breaks. The last lines burst out with "But how I cry / for the home / and weather / I left!" The neat, artistic image gives way to plain, raw feeling. The word "weather" is a lovely, unexpected detail, since it suggests the speaker misses not just a house but the air, light and seasons of a particular place. The mood is wistful and tender, with a sudden rush of real grief at the end.