Return to Cuyamaca

Green willows are bent down in leaf again,
brown grasses bow beneath the summer sun,
white pebbles glisten where the stream has run.
Love must return, though we may not remain.

Sweet oak brown earth breaths bungent from the rain,
sharp pinetree fingers rake the blinding sky,
old hillsides echo with the raven's cry.
Love must return, though we may not remain.

Round manzanita berries ripen red,
dark green buckwheat lifts up its rust brown head,
fat yucca fruit is dried and gone to seed;
each flower in its season has its need.

Every voice of nature shares the same refrain,
Love must return, though we may not remain.