Sooner Than Later

It is a quiet place
the wind whistles
through the cracks
that cannot always
be seen to the naked eye.
You can lose your place,
like a book where the pages
are blown or closed without
a mark to keep you.
Out across the fields
beyond the red clay sift,
mesquite lines a destination,
if you care to follow.
I think I shall sleep in
that first day, before I realize
I am home, again.

Raine Les 8/31/2009