Home is
where the past and present
meet like old friends
who have not seen each other
in years
It is
‘a place to come back to’
and the one I cannot leave
without tears and longing and regret.
Home is
here and there
and always somewhere else.
I cannot escape it
though it pulls my heart
like a tug-of-war between
foes equally matched.
It is corn stalks waving in the wind
and traffic slowing for tractors
in summer.
It is planting and tending and harvest and winter,
the rhythms of the fields marking time
for everyone.
Home is deep grief.
My heart shredded and mended as
scenes from two funerals
flash across my mind.
It is mountaintop joy
remembering the days
of blossoming love. The friendships,
the weddings, the births, the way
the city comes to life in the summer.
Home is the river that splits the city
north and south
as my heart splits
east and midwest.
Home is simple.
And complicated.
It is deep breaths.
And wounds that won’t quite heal.
It is then and it is now.
It is who I was and who I am and who I will be.
Home is.
