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.