New England Mind

My mind matches this understated land.

Outdoors the pencilled tree, the wind-carved drift,

Indoors the constant fire, the careful thrift

Are facts that I accept and understand.

I have brought in red berries and green boughs—

Berries of black alder, boughs of pine.

They and the sunlight on them, both are mine.

I need no florist flowers in my house.

Having lived here the years that are my best,

I call it home.  I am content to stay.

I have no bird's desire to fly away.

I envy neither north, east, south, nor west.

My outer world and inner make a pair.

But would the two be always of a kind?

Another latitude, another mind?

Or would I be New England anywhere?

Robert Francis