The Place You Call Home

Old tree

in front of me

how I admire your

steadfast presence,

your seasonal

transformations

in synergy

with every element

of your environment -

as mathematical

as it is cosmic

or divine.

I try and imagine

your mystical and

capricious history -

All the things you have seen!

I wonder if you yearn

for a change in

perspective

or if,

like an elderly man

sipping espresso

in a café window,

you quietly watch

the parade

of passing sights;

the path of reflection

illuminated by

the wisdom

of memory

and experience.

Decades,

even centuries,

of people-watching,

weathered storms,

growth and latency;

losing parts of yourself

and growing them again -

resilient and persistent

in your commitment

to living in this place.

The place you call home.

Slowly spreading your

your rhizomes,

embedding your

essence

deeper and deeper

into the terra.

The digging in

of the

proverbial boot,

multiplying and

staking your claim

on the terrain

as your biology

demands.

My gypsy heart

envious of

such grounding

as I struggle

to lay a foundation

from which to thrive -

or even withstand -

my surroundings

with such a

comparable dignity:

Just a seed

dropped carelessly

from the mouth

of a lost bird,

I’m dispersed like

leftovers across

tainted soil.

A nomad:

transient and

adaptable,

I give each landscape

a chance to

fertilise my soul,

waiting for the

shoots of my heart

to spread into the earth -

a multitude of

outstretched arms

reaching

in desperation

to become the tree

I was meant to be.

Losing hope

fragment by fragment

each time I feel

the faintest breeze;

the universe

whispering to me

as I acquiesce

and bend with the wind.

At the mercy

of the high and low

pressure systems

that permeate the air,

I float like

a feather on the

tail end

of a zephyr,

carrying me to the

next world

in which I will reside.