Dear hidden estate of which surely I
am queen, what is your weight in stone,
in paper, in gold? I hold your promises
carefully in one hand while with the other
I wield a rusty machete to clear a trail
through underbrush, through screens
of twigs and bramble, turning logs and small
boulders aside. You’ve always been a few
nimble steps ahead— sometimes disappearing,
then beckoning with a quick flick of the wrist,
a hand-lettered sign spelling Home.
And who would not hunger for such a vision:
an acre, a hollow, a nest no matter how
small, no matter it weighs as much
as the bird that built it… Be legible
now for me, convey such simple trust:
that willingness to indemnify my
years of hard wandering, at last.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.