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 Home could have started

With the wind

Blowing high over the ridge,

Fresh off the ocean.

Or home could have stayed

Like memories

In the fog flowing

As waves do.

 

Crashing, as waves do,

High against mountains,

Breakwaters, dreams,

Breaths.

 

Deepwater memories,

Blue-green futures, envisioned.

Annealed dreams, perhaps.

Or the past.

Perhaps forgotten experiences.

Perhaps hopes laid fallow.

Or perhaps visions glowing cherry red,

Deep green with passion.

 

Home could have started

As your first breath realized

On a summer day.

It did.

 

The fact is I never have

Known home.

 

I’ve seen waves

And winds.

I’ve watched the fog.

 

I have seen tumble-weeds blowing

Across a thousand dawns,

And never seen home.

Not my home.

 

That would be the fact.

I do know the dream.

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