home

between the trees and paw prints I walk,
studying openly, childlike, in the library.
conversations avoided, running out the clock;
not this time...this time we square up, scary.

revisiting lines, old ideals, heresy, shame,
searching out danger, looking for the blades.
we speak in references, old wounds, old blame,
grown tired of conversations fueled by decades.

each of us is an island of fortitude and strength,
confederates in castles, Heimdalls at the bridge.
we've "gone on our own way", "felt the arms length,"
strong, independent, full of holiness and sacrilege.

our wanderer's wisdom knows without doubt:
every step closer to the epicenter is laden with ash.
here the winter of our family's nuclear fallout,
rumbles in the distance, and returns in a flash.

so I keep my shoes tied, and suitcases packed,
foregoing notions of safety, or what should be.
visit freely, but never leave prints to be tracked;
sweep the soot, forget the rest, choose to be happy.

for this brief moment, our worlds have come together,
and I'll not waste the opportunity to smile or cry.
eye to eye, at the meeting point of shadow and feather,
my old home still stands, prairie dusted, and full of
goodbye.