a visual poem of home where I was grown, not born shy but later was, didn’t learn what I should’a learned, then left, yet tethered, where mom yet lived, the way she did, where I came back again, then again, and cried sometimes quietly, privately, till that day, her last and held her hand, the way it should be, human care, and now what remains is dirt and grass and trees, a trace of water here and there, and unseen, that scent, oh that scent of warm Summer manzanita scrub with its deep red sloughing parchment skin, else brief Spring when green is the color coming home, again, another circle, till when I might return, a foreign bird. my bag of words. like this beauty is.
- think of all the many strangers
now tumbled kin, on a stroll down
the mountainside. some bear
green in remembrance of water
past, where footsteps are landed
now. near too rich a beauty for
one life, one breath to inhale.
still, I recognize this face.