“We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded by a sleep.” – William Shakespeare

The Road Home

 My eyes drink and drink 
 the hills, the sky, 
 the road, I think 
 will unfold forever,
 and then the beauty of the light
 shifts from gold to the brimming
 of something I cannot name,
 some original shadow
 runs its fingers across the place
 where earth and sky are one,
 and I wonder –
  
 what do the hills know of me?
 what song does the sky hear in my soul?
 will the places my feet touched the earth
 think of me some day,
 when a flower lifts its Self into the wind,
 or a child turns and smiles?
  
 © Nina Audino 
 November 14, 2020