I May Never (Home)
By admin on in Poems with 2 Comments
I may never smell fresh cinnamon on an Indian woman’s brown fingers
or see Guatemalan plums dangle like obsidian earrings on the lobes of rural trees.
Nor may I play voyeur to the sun when it hides coyly behind Kenyan mountains
but there are places I know where frost coats the inside of lungs,
and all of summer’s hornets cannot sting so sharply as one invisible winter wind.
In this place, the moon is a dollop of pure honey
floating in black tea, and we watch our white breath rise
as the night steeps.
There may have never been hibiscus flowers parting their red lips
as I walked to school as a child
or mangoes dripping fragrance into my city streets
but on nights when I lay my body
against the calm, snowed earth
the crests of my flapping arms bring angels to the surface of the land.
There is a home for me between the magic and the struggle of each icy breath.
Though I may yearn for new places and new things
and my feet may call for new concrete
new muddied paths
new tones of brown from the bare flesh of the earth
No matter what freshness my senses crave
There will always be a familiarity in cold, naked trees
and the yearly martyrdom of fallen maple leaves.
There is even a place, a certain city
Where I do not have to use my birth-name
Because the streets have watched me grow.
The lowering sun has so often cast its glances through my bedroom window
The wind that shuttles between the narrow alleys could tell me stories
I’ve forgotten about myself.
It could sing the lullabies my mother used to sing.
Anyone who lives here could become the city’s eyes
because we all know the red brick of the buildings.
We have all marveled at summer’s tulips
and the crackling colours of autumn’s dying leaves
but only those who fill a place with their passion can become the city’s heart.
I have given myself to the history of this place that has raised me
and it has return to me the knowledge that all the exotic sands and shapes of the world
may be no greater a blessing to behold than the one pristine, unspoiled snowflake
balancing on my hot-blooded finger
in a place that is unmistakably my home.