Home Again

A Poem by Perdition

Looking down over a restless valley
my feet soon soar with the morphine of clay
wheels tattooed in moonlight, a surge
from the sword and seeds still beneath my skin

I look around to the heavens of old country seams
farms sparkle over the hillsides, stalks ripen with heavy age,
tractors take on this ending summer, yet a road drifting past me brings a dust and distance, a memory and forgotten home
I lean into this blight with open reverie
climbing an old white fog where the gardens give way

Am I again made by the ocean
Sifting through a loft, angled by the storms
old silos filled and fed, I suppose that also is a slight uncertain
a security we never have, the dogs dream we are always here, settled back into the doorway thinking that out there is our settling sun,
we forget in the vast hours we are not

The cold air brings us down into a slow river
voices soon relay that
this is where our life must go
toward our wounded endings, the wings of highway
where our names become a passenger again
a gypsy wagon with only another world to tell us what is truly out there, and what is left to understand

is it wrong to call this home
to call this hunger by its name

Seems strange now, that it should fit so well into my hand
strange that each day drifts into years
though the clouds return the thought
seems strange that the shore should divide us at all
perhaps a blessing like the shape of the eastern charm or Santiago
perhaps in this last look-around I may feel indifferent

El amor por la vida fluye en el corazón de las cosas invisibles
(Love for life flows in the heart of invisible things)

I know we will find this again
when the truth comes to the end of the cove
and the water runs dry
or on a slow and loving wish for life we wage ourselves
and the sky so unaware begins to dance
I know we will find this hour true
and who we are is at last what we could be
the simple place we call home again

© 2019 Perdition

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Reviews

barleygirl

Of millions of writers who write about "Home" . . . your concept travels the furthest from convention & expectation. I love how you use everyday relatable imagery, such as farmlands & rivers, but you throw each vision down with such complex novel wit, each concept is nearly unrecognizable as a "home" one might've been thinking of before reading that. I get the sense that we are continually creating & recreating "home" as we go along in life. In this way, as an old person, I feel closer to "home" than I've ever been, even tho all traces of what my childhood home used to consist of have disappeared from my experience now. Sometimes I feel like a blind person, feeling my way along, not knowing where I'm going, but seeking that feeling "home" as described in your poem, that resonates with my very essence (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie