2017.11.28 Backpack


Home in Germany, my paradise.
In the garden once stood a friend’s plum,
My son’s cherry and my Christmas tree.

Black currants and raspberries, roses, yellow and red
Jasmine, lilac, and forget-me-nots.
Rosemary and Sage and Citronella.

And people I have walked with, hand in hand.
People I take to be close as family.
In days when I was young.

And now I am seventy-one.
They said I should go home, to my family.
For they were only my friends.

Go home?
Go to where my heart is?
Heart dear, are you still in my backpack?




Mines, all scattered around.
Sleeping, like volcanoes.
No one detonating.

No one demining.

Some home.
Thank God,
Not mine.