The map's long gone,but I know the way-
past rusted barns and fields of gray.
The same old tree still leans too far,
and Grandma's church still guards the stars.

Windows down,the breeze is sweet,
with scents of lilies and fresh wheat.
A basket rattles on the seat,
beside the jacket Dad gave me.

I see the porch-those creaky rails,
the windchimes telling quiet tales.
And just like that,I'm ten again,
with jellybeans and ink-stained hands.

The road3was long,the world moved fast,
but easter brings me home at last.