a story form helen faust
beneath another sun must have been mine.
I speak a new language and clasp your hand,
I taste the grapes from your vine,
They are sour, bitter to my mouth,
I don't enjoy such,
missing home, both north and south!
I prefer my own kind of fruit,
peaches or oranges are sweet and good,
I dwell on words that's soft
with friends and eyes,
gentle and aloft.