Middle ground

Some say you can never go home
But if you are born in Kansas
A part of you will never leave.

The sky is painting
The essence of flatness.
Everything else
Fancy words,
Games of light and color.

Always look outward
Out, out, out.
We are not beginning or ending
All the time.

Mystery is everywhere
We hold it in cracked hands.
Steamy machines on cold mornings.
We take in beauty,
Share it in a carving on a picnic bench.

Wave in passing,
Compare notes about the work
On the way home.

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