I've gone from home but funny,
what wakens me -- tall liquid
ambers with leaves turning red, gold, drifting down
stir much within.
Mother collected foliage. Sometimes I find leaves
pressed, dry, faded to straw between hymnal pages,
She used to sing as she elbowed a blackened pot. Her
melody drifts down now, "I Come to the Garden Alone.."
In my own yard I hear rustles of a presence.
Chirps speak, not she who spread
discarded bread on a fence ledge where
birds feasted. While walking among
redwood giants, I glimpse a dull olive
canvas tent, smell sweet pork 'n beans heating
on a kelly green stove and I hunger. On this hot
October afternoon near the one year mark, I thirst
and find at camp's fountain a dark bar, the semi-
sweet she weekly bought, and a new soda,
Henry Weinhard's.
Now I loosen its cap, discover its cherry scent, taste,
bubbles like I once drank perched on a bar stool beside
her. I'm far, far
from home, yet sweet,
bitter-sweet home still travels
with me.
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