Green? Where’s the real green, emerald, sea-foam, forest?
Where is the boardwalk? No where to be found here!
I declare I’ve landed in grit; sand silted soft and clean
that filters into cracks in sidewalks or hangs on a wire window screen.
So this is California, dusty dull browns,
hazed sky’s above swollen earth mounds of
hills, rolling hills of sage and faded orange
untouched by everything but the sun.
Ocean breezes and cool cool sea
of lesser blue than I remember
Have I forgotten the place of my birth
the bay-side outside my door ‘whenst I was
two or three; how could I have forgotten so much?