I am
Home.
amongst the forest of
our childhood.
sitting at the base of the tree
at the base of our hill,
inhaling
the
past and present
brings me whole
again.

My sons charge
slipping on the dry, barren slate bed
defending our mountain
slashing at predators,
intruders
with their
practical sword-walking sticks.
their laughter rises
with the trees
mingling, mixing,
cunningly
deceiving my perception,
as to whether the
happiness ringing out is
theirs
or ours
absorbed, preserved
from decades
gone by.

gathering My soldiers,
and commanding
true freedom
awaits
at the top of the Mountain,
we rush the hill.

steepness soon stifles
bravery,
and encouragement
a necessity.
the same roots
we used to lunge for,
they do.
the same slate crevasse
we overcame,
they maneuver around.
the same encouragement
whispered
to usher this little sister,
she gives to them.

as hard, burnt umber ground
succumbs
to green moss
and lush ferns,
we stand
firm, at the summit.
silence except for
breaths.
this was our happiness.
no pain, no worries, no fear,
no anger.
just us and woods.
Connected.

the forest’s constancy
provides hope,
proof
of brotherly love
in silent challenging
escapades.
Surveying the treetops,
and the boy’s proud smiles,
my heart throbs,
aches,
muscling
the loneliness
of the forest
into my heart.

For nothing
can
relinquish
the crushing
sensation
of truly missing your
Home.