Itinerant, I move back north, away
From one more place I found to be
Not right:  too dry, too hidebound,
Grandiose, peculiarly, as there is
Nothing of note here, except that
Grandiosity.  In a day, I will return
To the more modest, no less hidebound,
Land which I have called my home,
Though restlessly, for twenty years.
I'll stay a while, not too long, and then
I'll wander off again in search of what
I cannot find:  a place which dissipates
The cloud of darkness that I pack with
Me.  I know that I supply the faults
I find in every land.