Calling Me Home

Photo of children running home in Basque, France by William Albert Allard

I had pulled away, testing how far a connection could stretch, not always thinking of how the tug of resistance felt on the other end. What had been a pulsing vital conduit instead felt withering and restricting, so I sought eagerly to move beyond its reach.

It is turbulent out there without ties and tethers as anchors in the storm. There is hunger and thirst when roots have been pulled out and exposed. There is chill without the sustenance of hearthfire. It is lonely without the enveloping bonds of nurture within a sanctuary of love.

When I heard the call, I knew the time had come to return home. And so I ran, skipping, jubilant, eager, ready, almost weightless in my anticipation of a joyful reunion.

Ghost Shadows of Summer

In mid-autumn
the dying still grip
firmly to life-
stem to branch,
branch to trunk,
trunk to roots in the ground.

Then October turns the page
and November
winds blow in
drenching rain.
Storm swept
leaves loosen
in animated tumble,
a tousled chlorophyll
kaleidoscope.

Float disconnected
to soil, pond
and sidewalk,
settling flat,
to mark the spot
like an epitaph
until raked together
into composting piles.

Disembodied imprints
of ghostly leaft-overs–
veins and rib, lobes and tip.
Shadows of summer
remembered, treasured,
now lost to the wind
and rain of autumn.