In a Foreign City

The imprint of our home
Is never so clear
As when we find
Ourselves in the embrace
Of its cousin.

A foreign city --
With its offices
And shops,
Grinning like
Vaguely familiar ghosts,

Its bright cars
Zipping happily along
Its unfathomable grid --

Refreshes one's faith
in the vastness
And tenacity of life.

On new ground,
One feels all inner compasses
Searching for
True Spiritual North --

But the terrain,
And the water,
And the signs,
And the sights

Lean on different
Landmarks.

When your own inner terrain
Becomes oppressive
In its familiarity,
Cross a border.

Look for someplace
That reminds you of home.

Then let the huge differences
Sink into your soul,
Like a monsoon rain

Into the parched
And pleading
Earth.

--Mr. Gobley