Here May Never be Home

Sixty-three years of fruitless existence
Have won me a pension. I'll be working
Less. I'll have the time to start walking
Again, wasting the hours moving through
Space at a snail's pace, learning at last
Where I am, the textures of this place
I've lived in for decades, but never
Have gotten to know. Will I feel myself
Part of this world of dust, of dark,
Muddy rivers, deciduous trees, to the
Same degree I remain a part of
That region of mountains and fir
Trees and moss that I abandoned
Long ago? I doubt it. I probably
Ought to go back to live out the rest
Of my fruitless existence in the place
I still think of as home.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2017-01-11 at 14:04

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