At home there's a sun-corner
 where spring quietly stirs.
 Dripping all day long.
 Clear drops from the snow-rim,
 they reflect both good and bad
 in their brief fall, and are shattered.
 The sun is a hot cataract.

 In that sun-corner,
 where you were born -
 it's those drops that should
 mirror you, and wet your lips,
 pure from the snow-rim and
 right into your heart.

 It's in that faint smell of
 spring moisture you should fall asleep.
 That call you should heed.
 There, everything would feel right.

 It's all moving downhill.
 Everything's oozing toward a distant goal,
 on its way to the sea.
 An unknown sea inside a dream.
 All of spring's sorrow is heading there.
 All thoughts spiral there
 and then disappear.

 Your childhood sun-corner is where
 you are when the call sounds.