In truth, I’ve been writing this poem for
several months now, every few
days in my head.
I ascend the wooden stairways, go up
up through the heavy gate inset with a
sword, take two hundred (or so) steps
and begin again.
Palace of my dreams, small now, less
noble, less homey, less comfortable,
I thought I’d be writing about the red
brick steps and the skylight windows,
soundproof rooms and familiar scents, yet
home has moved, as it so often
does, without us knowing
Home moved to my sister, singing and
gym sleepovers, five years
my senior and ten years gone.
Home moved to the recognition of a
stranger and a strange place, bedecked with the
familiar glass doors, pine chairs,
familiar banners, spaces of worship,
familiar people, teachers, leaders,
Palace of my dreams, how did I not
notice you moved to your new house?
How did I not notice I’ve outgrown
you and yet found you anew,
is where you are
– my God found
in three separate
where you whisper to me:
(Yes, this is me posting part II without having poster part I. Just in case you wen’t looking for it.)