Sense of Place - Jan 3 2026

 

Sense of Place

Jan 3 2026

A sense of place.

More sensation than geography,

more warp and weft

than single thread.

The smell

even after you stop noticing.

Of fresh cut grass,

bread cooling

on a bakery shelf.

The light,

which might be steamy tropic

or long arctic night,

a high prairie dawn

or clear mountaintop.

Might be refracted

in waves of heat

rippling over sun-drenched sand.

Or might be dappled on a summer lake,

sunset in an orange haze,

a neon sign in bawdy red

blinking on-and-off.

How after the rain

wet blacktop

reflects the lights of passing cars.

And how the warm light

spilling from a snug little house

invites you in from the dark.

The warmth of your hand

in another,

the pleasing roughness 

of quarried stone and cool brick.

The touch of your feet 

grounding you,

the familiar land

where you can root yourself 

in amply fertile soil.

And the ambient sounds,

from traffic to surf

hawkers to buskers to men at work

and children let out to play.

Howling wolves

that shiver your spine,

the jazz

you catch walking by,

and the lovelorn blues

that stay with you

in the even longer silences.

Last call, at closing time,

stumbling out into the cold.

You know you had it once;

when you were young

and without second thought

felt you belonged.

And ever since, have searched

but never quite settled;

there, but always impatient to leave

so you can reinvent yourself 

someplace else.

A fugitive leaf

at the mercy of wind

that won’t let up,

a wanderer

without the wanderlust.

A sense of place

which you’re certain you’ll know

the moment you arrive.