in the journey to home, what do I carry
even the lightest of memories can burden
the wrinkled hands of my grandmother preparing jam
the salty bite from a wave stinging my eyes
the throaty calls of bullfrogs sending me to sleep
the orange moon filling the night beyond my childhood window
these have filled my coat pockets
their bittersweet weight heavy as stones
if I drop them, will I walk easier on the road
or float away from any ground, dispersing all self into the sky
Leave a Reply