This poem was recently revised, and because it was never originally posted to the blog, it now appears out of chronological order. 

Home

May 18 2008

The place I was born

is occupied by strangers.

And my parents, unsentimental

threw out box-after-box

moving on.

As I did, once;

so now I live

one time zone late.

Here, there are mountains

instead of lake,

and the streets are wider, straighter

with no secret places

from childhood.

So I feel off-kilter, some days,

wishing I could stand at the shore

lulled by waves

a steady fragrant breeze.

And if the world ends

it will be one hour later

- as if an hour was warning enough

to prepare.

The sun is the same, of course

but the light is different,

a thin pale glow

so things look cool, distant.

It’s the pure mountain air, they say

but I don’t know;

could be my eyes

just getting older.

I suppose I have lived here long enough

to call it home.

In this house,

where I keep my things,

where I go

to sleep,

and where days seem unnaturally brief

hemmed-in beneath the peaks.