Irish Longing

Land was sparkling green

laid out in front of me,

still drenched from morning dew.

Sea beyond, a rich purple velvet swatch.

Fabric from a favorite shawl.

Celtic crosses along

two-lane highways marked

the altars to St. Brigid,

Irish Saint of the Hearth.

I longed to be warmed by a fire,

a hand-woven rug

beneath my shoes.

Cherry-stained,

laughing cheek of an Uncle

or man cousin

sharing their day’s yarn

with me.

“Now, now

you belong here,

young one,”

I heard her voice.

Not far away in the dry desert.

You are made of crystal rain drops,

scratchy wool sweaters,

mud-scuffed boots.

Not lacey sundresses,

leather sandals,

and tanned feet.

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