Going too far from Home

The theory being that when you travel you never return home fully. You have left part of yourself on the horizon; looking back at the, but it really isn’t a road, it is more of a way taken, none of the firm lines of a highway, like ways of the Sun crossing the Sky.

The first jolt of thunder is the new drumbeat of Spring, and we hope to hear it measured in Summer.
This is a good day grey with the promise of rain.
Good Rain, come lave the trees,
wash their limbs and waken [them]
This place is sudddenly filled with a tilted curtain of snow as the breeze dances by in her borrowed veils.
An hour after dark it is cold again, but there is no frost.
An hour after daylight it is warm..
The trees have begun to speak to each other. The few bees are slow, but grateful. The Spring Sun would be a good heiroglyph for hope. The robin is loud and numerous, yanking worms from the earth, amdist their broken running of starts and stops. The flat sweet dandelions small and scattered. The bird bath the only gnomon on the lawn; its shadow delicious on the turf, one hour of innocence pointing at the lilacs tight with buds.
Your words sir, are too rich for the tongue, confuse the mind and lower the lids.