as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent
” –Pablo Neruda

Home is the landscape of her memories,
the old corral, a weed-choked chicken house,
dancing in the cornfield, climbing a tree,
“ice skating” on a puddle in the shade.

In her toddling footsteps along the bay,
games in the woods, favorite books,
bike-riding, playgrounds, hide and seek,
my childhood is re-embroidered, whole.

Home is the panorama of her future,
wide-open spaces, red-rock canyons,
or some other unimagined place
still waiting to be known by her alone.

Now I plant roses for remembrance,
catch their scent in the air, an old lady
searching for abandoned nests
with the child I used to be.


I was planning to respond to an old poem about my daughter for dVerse, but thinking of trees sent me wandering through time.

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