At Home

The Abbey of the Arts periodically hosts a "poetry party." Today, the offering asks, "What does the metaphor of "going home" evoke for you?  What are the longings that autumn stirs in your heart?" Below is my response. May God bless all of our "homes" -- those from which we come, and those we create now. Join the party!

At Home

At home there is a river

that, over too much time

for memory, niched

its way through a mountain,

making a way where there was

no way. At home that river

feeds leafy flesh so rich

they age to majestic purples

this dusky time of year. At home

my parents also survive on

that river’s passage, but

their veins grow thick through

papery skin losing its pinkish hue.

At home the leaves will fall

into the river’s flow, be swept through

a mountain gap and into mulch. At

home they will one day be one

with the mountain and trees

and, eventually, no longer be

in memory.