A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN
My mother was born in the Saint Lawrence valley,
Along with her one sister Sally;
And though I was born on the Mohawk I loved the north woods,
And I came here whenever I could.
When I was a young man I was always the rover.
I traveled the north country over,
Living in communes and sleeping out under the stars,
And learning to play my guitar.
But having no money began to get old,
With the north country winters so long and so cold,
So I went back to college and earned my degrees,
Thinking a good job would follow from these.
I lived in the Northwest, I lived in the Southwest,
But things never worked out for the best,
Working long hours at a number of jobs with low pay,
Feeling homesick almost every day.
So I pulled up my stakes and returned from the West,
And it felt like I never had left .
And I know now that no job can be worth as much in the end
As to live in the land that you love with your family and friends.
Saranac Lake, New York, 1994
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