If the centre of reality is / where the heart is if the world begins / where first we see it if home land is holy ground / and ground is the matrix from which we spring / do I miss Manitoba.
The blue on blue of summer sky over flaxfield / the contrast of mustard and rye still rooted / the joy of alfalfa and clover and making hay / mile on mile of rolling hills with contours / fencelines horizons outlined green . . .
So, Do you miss Manitoba? they ask / as if the answer were obvious / As if I am neither exile nor emigrant / but an escapee, fugitive perhaps, fearful of capture and / return.