Not mad as a Nomad

Early years were filled with white frost and autumn leaves.

Constant battles with engines starting,

filled with tall trees, during Christmas Eve.

The place where I walked my first steps,

and learned how to ride my two-wheeled-machine.

A place where air is fresh and forever clean,

and Momma was always there.

Middle years were filled with bare toes and sandcastles.

During summer, it was often full of hurricane candles.

Uncontrollable blonde locks caused by constant humidity;

A home full of more rooms, more stability,

and Momma was always there.

Later years were filled with wide trailers and thin, non-discrete walls;

Jumping off of cedar trees over ten-feet-tall.

Every home, apart from mine, constructed of limestone;

Where the obsession of cowboy boots persisted, forever unknown.

Summers full of barbeque, winters full of heartache;

'Lots of inescapable time at the nearby lake,

and Momma was always there.

Present years are filled with uncertainty, surrounded by familiar sunsets;

Unapproachable waves, a contradicting concept.

Nostalgic aromas notorious for their visitation;

The ultimate tourist attraction, at no exaggeration.

Yet, full of empty Christmas's, until I receive that video call,

because after all,

Momma is always there.