Walking up the escalator, books in hand,

Where am I going...?

Each corridor a maze of walls and doors.

I stand...

Empty halls, and silence....

Someone walks toward me,

Eyes averted, walks on by.

Is this the place?

Sometimes we have to stop and count the window panes.

For me it is this way.

My rivers are all run now,

My forests all walked through...

And when I cry I do it in a room.

But I remember oceans green and grey

And mountain tops with tiny flowers...

Brown and broken desert dunes

And skies of endless spray

And arctic ice and prairie showers

And laying bricks....

And where I am...today.