Come Poem by John Yaws

"Can't you hear them calling you"? My Grandpa said to me.
"Something on the wild, west wind, which bids me, "come and see"?
A voice not heard by everyone, a siren call to some-
The call of lonely places, they call, they bid me "Come"!

I followed them to the Northwest, a land of snow and trees-
And still their voices called me West, across the tropic seas.
Hawaii, and the Phillipines; I could not still their voice-
I turned my tracks, a homeward course, the Southwest was my choice.

The California desert, the burning Yuma sands-
The wild and barren wilderness, along the Rio Grande.
The lovely Painted Desert, West Texas in the spring,
The Hopi Reservation, where the shamans dance and sing.

And still the voice keeps calling me, although I'm growing old-
I'll die upon the trackless waste, alone, out in the cold.
And if you find my grim remains and wonder where I'm from-
I'm just another drifter, whom, the wild voice bade to "Come".