Tonight I have to blog on my phone, which is a weird thing. I miss my desk, and my mug, and my husband. I’m also not very good at the texting, so please forgive the autocorrect. What this means, though is that tonight’s preamble soul will be much shorter than normal. I’ll try to figure out the laptop Wi-Fi tomorrow, and write tons of blog tomorrow. Since I know that for some of you, the blog is the best part. Happy Sunday, wayfarers.
It took a circuitous route and many retraced lines
To bring us back here to the land of the Flatheads.
They remembered, these tender cells, the growth in the valley floor,
Remembered the mountains that hold us in a fat spoon,
The buildings even when the names have changed, call back deep.
A lickety quick step of bone memory, and we are on the high plain,
Faces to the wind, as the the thought breaks through the February sky,
That we thought it was done, this childhood,
But couldn’t keep out the glare of the reflection,
And it is never done.
Because one lungful of this homeland brings a thousand breaching returns,
And the feeling of large hands lifting us from womb to room.
Goodnight, Sweet poem friends.