Sunday, October 25, 2015


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I’m thinking about what happens when you go back
to a place that was once fond of you and see all
those strangers you’ve known for many years,
and how so much will have changed, undoubtedly,
but not the fact that you are still wondering who you
are and how all of this is supposed to fit together,
somehow. There are bridges that convey us between two
points on this Earth, and others that take us
on entirely different journeys. I’ve stood on both.
I want to see the ducks, yes, of course, the ducks of
the ducks that once held my confessions, hear the
yellowed beech leaves crackle beneath my boots,
and try, very hard if I must, to remember
things that I never thought were important. Somewhere
along the winding brick pathways and boxwood-edged
gardens, I’ll stop and say my hellos to some soul or another.
I’ll mean everything I say in the words that follow. A poet
is always earnest. The trouble is though, we never truly
find our way home. And, we know it.

© 2015-2017/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Published by Talking Waters Press 

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