Home--I could tell you exactly what it means

How many syllables, how it’s spelled, the definition easily given

Yet. I could not plot it on a map. Could not give you directions

No, not to my safe space. Not to the place where I settle

Seven buildings waiting, all with drawers inside just for me

And these drawers hold things. My things.

Clothes, wrinkled and dusty

Books with creased spines sitting on a shelf,

Some with bookmarks shoved halfway through

Marking the exact spot where I gave up

Brick and mortar, people calling to check in:

“I haven’t heard from you in a while”

“When are you coming home?”

“Your room is ready for you”

But its not ready because it’s not mine

Seven houses and still nowhere to sleep at night

But keep my things for me

Just in case I want to come back.

August creeps in around the branches, slipping

Cascading warmth into green light on the ground, leaving

You motionless, transfixed, knowing

The stillness simply was not made to last

Dip an oar into water, feeling

The tension as it breaks the surface, tensing

Muscles that get stronger everyday, growing

Months leading to this tan strength

Fall will come swiftly, eagerly from north to south

Taking and tearing; ushering the deep light away

But today you continue--past stone fence and mangled root,

Through blue green waters, and into the open

A creature of the dirt surrounded by the sea

When you were young you belonged anywhere.