Leavin on a Jet Plane

Get thee to Ireland! Here is the unedited version I found of this poem I wrote one time. I like it well enough. How about you?

Green
 
Imagine a country, an island
an unknown city or town.
It is known to you only in dreams;
it exists somehow, somewhere, someway.
 
You know for sure because someone lives there
someone you care for, but dare not more.
 
What is a friend?
Can you make friends with a place?
Your place is green.
Green streets, green leaves, green sleeves,
green cheeks, smiles, feet.
Even the sky is green
at twilight
when the grass longs for the tender touch of the sun.
Does the moon shine as bright in your Green?
Do you see the same moon that I see,
the same celestial man gaping at me in surprise?
Is he in awe of you, too?
 
Questions remain unanswered, like a lost letter.
The sender is confused—frustrated, rejected—
when really you never got the message at all.
I sent it across the fickle sea to Green
with a trusted tattooed sailor.
But I wrote it on a lime
and maybe he needed to ward off
that disease where you need to eat citrus.
 
Two islands separated by much more than
distance.
We don’t speak the same language, not really.
Our respective words are loaded,
neither of us fully understanding the other
or our own selves, for that matter,
but unfortunately, there is no guide-book for Green.
 
This Green—I dream it, but can’t get it quite right
for my dreams are in grayscale, black and white.
I must see it, breathe it, touch it, taste it
I want to feel Green in between my toes,
way down deep in my belly.
Does it taste like grass or heaven?
 
Someday you’ll show me.
I’ll wish upon both our moons,
I’ll send another lime
tied up with a black velvet band.
You’ll cross the heavy sea,
bringing Green to my doorstep.
I’ll say you’re a silly man,
carrying that big island in your pack
and you’ll say
that’s what friends are for.