P.O.W.

I close my eyes and see the rolling fields, And breathe the autumn air, scented with sage. It is then my homesick, longing spirit yields, And hot tears flow -- for I'm locked in a cage.

Old dreams return to haunt me at year’s fall, White flags of deer, the whir of startled grouse, Smoke rising upward, climbing straight and tall, In a silvery pillar above an old farmhouse.

I miss these things, but miss you most of all, When summer dies and autumn breezes blow. Yet it is with joy I look to this year's fall, For Spring -- and you! -- wait just beyond the snow.