No longer the same

“walk into the city to be changed…” ~ D. Bonta

And you were, even before you packed
your bags: the fact of the matter
being that the ghost of a place
haunted you, sowed seeds that turned
into blooms you could not name—

In the garden, by the shed, the bees
make a home they still remember
after traveling through fields
and vines, looking for their own
kinds of sweet. Green rows

undulate like a sea in the sun—
in the country that keeps them,
they’ll never know the luminous script
of snow, the quiet sift when leaves
abandon the arms that held them.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Reinvention.

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