Author Information
In Conflict Over the Roots of Nostalgia
Home for me...
no place on a map
that is compressed between
lands lined off by the state
It exists in the arms of the trees
and in the veins of my own arms
like the veins of a vine
taking in the sun
I feel it pumping
liquid and oxygen
the pulse of the earth
like the pulse of bare feat
escaping shoes in the spring
the yellow dandelion
not a weed to me
is my cue to lose my shoes
and run through the fields
as callus is painted yellow
my shell...
my safety...
if only my body lived there still
instead of confined by concrete
the forest was more of a home
the trees were my friends
as we sat together with their waving
and clattering leaves
in oak and maple language
telling me of life... a whisper
I know what they were saying
a soft secret in a peaceful sway
I knew them well but
It has been too long
my feet have grown soft
my heart has grown weak
wearing shoes instead of freedom
protection from asphault
more deadly than frost on the foot
I, no longer that child
with no boundaries
but instead a geographer, scientist...
who sees in drawn lines, rules, structure...
and cannot escape them
I reach for memories
they fade... leaving me...
forlorn...
