Returning East

After a summer

of dry heat and thoughts

as swirling and crooked

as the peaks we climbed

I find myself returning East.

In the decay of these broad-leafed forests

I tumble through the debris of who I was

when I grew here.

Faeries of my childhood dance in the shadows of birch leaves

as the decay of past selves

spread across my skin in cobwebs.

The way the forest floor crumbles under my step

tells me I am older now--

wiser too although I am not ready to admit it.

The humming birds hover before me

and I think I almost understand their visitations--

reassurances from other worlds.

"all is okay," they say.

In my return East

the co-emergence of comfort and constriction

makes me wonder if this could ever be home again.

Mushrooms push themselves up before me

reminding me of the roots I grew here.

I stoop to inspect the space under their shelter

and feel my knees digging deeper into the humus

of who I was, am and will be.

Its scent,

the memory of running barefoot down the padded dirt path

at my Mormor's house in late summer,

seduces me to take root.

I think this will always be home,

always be my source.

I take a deep breath in,

storing the memory of pine and peat moss in my lungs.

For while this is home,

I know it is not where my body will lie

perhaps until I am ready to return to being nothing more

than the source itself.

Nothing more than the sent of soil

after a summer storm.

Waiting at Blueberry Lean-to

Adirondacks

14 August