Homesick
I miss the rising sun—
Light on piercing pine tops
Seen from the open kitchen window
Sizzling of the frying pan
Drowned out by birdsong.
I miss the little wooden fence
(The one with the rusty latch)
Opening my way on a hunt
For fresh fruit of the forest
For today’s family dinner
And I miss the silent water
So still, so welcoming, so kind,
I miss the kindness on the faces
Of houses down the path
From my red-roofed home.
I’m homesick for this place
I have never seen
And never will.
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A Cottage Garden with Chickens, Peder Mørk Mønsted, 1919
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