It’s a cool gray rainy day here,
a transitional day, with the remnants of Winter
and early signs of Spring.
Standing under the edge of our carport
I can see almost a mile of tan fields and lines of trees,
until the landscape gets lost in the mist.
The trees and Spanish moss are moving with the breeze,
as are the flags on our street.
These are mostly World War Two people
and that kind of patriotism doesn’t go away,
even though the nation has changed over their lifetime.
I didn’t like Florida for a long time after I landed here.
The palms annoyed me.
They were foreign and reminded me that I wasn’t home;
that this was all temporary and I didn’t belong here.
I could go to almost anywhere up north and not feel like an outsider,
but Florida felt unreal… like a movie.
As I stood just out of the rain today and took in the palms,
the giant oaks in rainy-day colors,
and the Spanish Moss like graceful fringe on a gown,
it occurred to me that I like it.
When did that happen?
I still love Buffalo with it’s four seasons
and the energy in the air,
but it’s mostly the Buffalo in my memory.
The last time we visited there,
I enjoyed it, but I had a sense of being outside looking in.
The world has changed so much
that maybe we all feel a little like strangers at times,
but this subtropical place has sneaked up on me
and it’s started to look right.
Maybe I’m home…
or as close as I’ll ever get.