“I wander” starts the simple song. I know
The rhythm, how to walk, but not the way.
I watch as others scatter on the road
Each scramble nine directions hurriedly.
An open bag of wind unspools my will,
Spins me into schools, houses, sheets, and arms—
Not one’s a home, but they will do until
I steer out of miles and into hours.
The course charted with whys—uncertain winds—
Comes clear in shadow dreams and memories—
To a sea of grass lapping autumn woods,
And last night’s dress hung until morning.
You whisper, “No more wandering for you.
This is your home. This all you have to do.”