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Gypsy Homebound

Heart is where my home finds graceful relationship,
where my soul simply IS,
my memories of becoming,
of being at my best,
sometimes my worst,
but always my most full, complete,
most abundantly contentious and content.

Home unveils life’s liturgy.
This home where I was conceived
and born
has rebirthed me each dawn
and decomposed through all my dream time,
where I grew up and out,
where brother moved away
from where I was married,
from where I buried my grandparents,
and then my parents.

As my body houses identity
my home houses body.
While home and self-identity can be distinguished
one from the other,
this is never a benign or wisely severing discrimination;
better as a distinction without prospects for contented difference,
dishearted separation.

My soul and mind and body fade and wilt
withdrawn by force and circumstance
from embryonic being.
To awaken or sleep away
in any profanely alien place,
without power or even hope to return
to more sacred memoried space,
fades my eyes and ears and nose,
my skin down to my spinal bones,
despair this senseless loss of sense
of life and breath and bread that once was mine
and could be mine to share again.

My home is where I live
my view of neighbors and town and Earth and life
flowing sedately toward, then past too quickly
on my backyard river of memory,
greeting ducks and swans
herons and eagles soaring by
to hunt this fertile rippling home with me
now fading into memory
as memory shades to sympathy and apathy,
and apathy to this sad self-isolation
from my heart’s dismembering womb.

Lavish price for a new bodied home
invites sublimating new with best familiar practices and intents,
artifacts of golden relational memories from past days
and life
and home,
reframed by unfamiliar
but gracefully welcoming
trees
and birds
and weeds.

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