The Timing of Home
Time loses meaning.
Forever stretches both ways.
History and future a blur of voices
and the sound of work done and undone.
You lose your moorings,
find your foundations,
wait for the tide
to take you home.
About this poem
I have spend a week among relatives down south.
When I go “home”, I have trouble writing. So much flotsam and conversations, always learning new things about the family I have been a part of all my life, foundations shifting, the images of my own family pictures shifting long after they should be fixed.
So I put away my writing. I listen. I let the feelings well. And then come home, letting the long drive, zen time, bring me back to myself, or at least the me I seek to be.
It’s good to be home.