Filling Jars and junkyards
With memories I can't discard.
The ominous and sonorous
Creeks as I wade through my mind.
Call me home.
Sweeping and continuous hushing of those trees,
Swells around my bedroom where it cradles me to sleep.
Oh how I dream.
Pick me a day when I can let go.
Accept impermanence.
See the quickening of the year and embrace.
And in equal measure dispel with the past, and notions of the future.
Blocking out those shouts.
Waiting for the light.
A pattern to the leap across the carpet in the hall,
taking care not to step on the ghost of previous fall.
So follow down those paving stones, a greenhouse with no glass.
An apple tree. A pear tree. Guardians of the grass.
There you'll find a little boy, forever in that dream.
Remember that idyllic scenes are not always what they seem.
Call me home.
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