I often think of where I was born.

Heat

sand

the dry whisper of oak leaves on dusty earth

my first lullaby.

I ache for that.

The quiet, searing blue 

an unforgiving sky

domed above me, stinging my eyes

fresh and sharp, bitter in its clarity.

A lone cloud on occasion

shading, cool relief.

Or maybe a different blue

one so crisp

so inviting

dive in, it begs

so cold

your teeth chatter but you know the bite subsides

the longer you stay

numb and wild and free.

Climb out, sand clinging

hop across burning dunes

the towel so close but so far.

I liked to watch the horizon

a robin's egg to sapphire

the sun a crown,

regal and important from her perch, 

brushing her fingers over my shoulders

the bridge of my nose

so many freckles  under her touch,

sprouting

weeds or flowers?

Sometimes my mind strays to another kind of home

one of beating hearts, open arms.

They live between the blues,

in the dust

and sand

in a place where I am not, where I was

where I should be still.

I feel them reaching

I reach back

my hand comes back emptier than I expected.

Some of my home, you see

lies among the roots

free from the sun's harsh stare

pale

alone 

eyes closed and quiet.

I keep far from the dirt

far from the roots

I do not like to think

of what grows 

where I cannot see it.

Still

I miss it

I miss them

I want to go back

you would have to drag me,

stiff, resistant

tears salty

the ocean in my blood running down my face

rivers,

flowing back

cutting canyons 

meeting the sea,

a loving embrace;

a homecoming of sorts.