JOURNEY HOME

You can’t go home again, they said to me. 
Not after this transformation, no, not
After what I’d seen, after the things that 
Happened not only to me but others
I held dear. Those I had held close, had their
Bodies changed, altered, marred -some might say- or
Others might say beautified, forged into 
A testament to things experienced. 
Each action of the world against them or
Their struggle in the world added color
Or an edge. Perhaps smoothed something that once
Cut. Jagged teeth edges. We are all like
Stones, rolling or rolled against by others
In the confusion of a turbulent
River. Some crack open upon impact
Some become worn and fit the grasping hand.

Held, worried. Emotion softening them. 
Is this what it is like to be human?
To be made of stone? Both born of the earth?
A raven floats in circles overhead
Observing me with its bright eye, spirals
Gracefully down, ever closer, its loud
Cawing harsh, clashing, belied by shiny
Iridescent feathers, and hops once or
Twice closer to me. Now. Meanwhile, somewhere
Scientists write down the intelligence 
Of these birds is akin to our own. This 
Observation has never been in doubt
For some. But this doesn’t negate the use
Of authoritative observation.
Some only respect statements of power.

Can you make this path become visible?
Does it matter -yes- so much does matter
Heavy, important, vital, and worthy
Of attention. I tread lightly on this
Pathway back, so as not to crush those things
That might be delicate. I place each step
While maintaining a gaze which observes rise
In front of me, the place I am going, 
The weather above, any approaching 
Bodies, be they animal or human.
Approach. Come closer. Start the journey home.
The mountain takes less time to become an
Intimate than you think. Begin walking.

When you arrive home, and you have transformed
Is home the same? When you arrive home, and 
Home changed does it hold your heart? Are all the
Old ghosts and thoughts and people connected
To place, or do you carry them within
Yourself? As I walk, a friend from halfway
Around the world accompanies me. These days
Pressing a few keys summons their spirits. 
Suddenly I know their thoughts, and they know
Mine. We choose to share with one another.
The land we step on is not the same land.
No shared space. But time, too, is a traveled
Dimension. We’re not only our bodies
Though we can’t live without them. Now, and now.

Tied to one location with another,
Observing their person, voice, unfiltered
Reaction in time. Words, loves. See how this 
Moment plays out. There is so much more to
Read when bodies are in proximity.
To you here, time, space, no matter, only
Now. But these words, filtered by entities
Over which I have little control, these
Words have others that sound the same, or look
The same, but have entirely different
Meanings -there are those words that contain their
Exact opposite within themselves- and 
Some words’ many divergent definitions 
Obfuscate their true intentions and could be lost. 
I work to be simple most of the time.

Sometimes I drive to put distance, sometimes
I walk to put distance. This allows my
Body to do what it wants to do, now,
On its own. To leave thought behind in each 
Footprint as rain is left in an indent
In soft earth. Not everyone can do this. 
I am aware of the fact that I have
An ability to up and go, to leave situations 
Which constrict me. To walk, to walk, to walk.
Though I’m in a place I have been many
Times before, I find that around the next
Corner there is something new. A feature
Has changed, some surprise has been created,
Something else has been subtracted, and the 
Familiar is made unfamiliar now.

I love this land. There’s nothing like a tree
Or the earth to remind me from where I
Have come. There are no lovers arms that are
Like these branches I stand under that reach
Toward me and toward the sky at the same time. 
There is no lover’s body that supports 
My weight the way this path does. Some people
Return home bearing titles, accolades
Honors, trails of fans or connections to
People that love them, revere them, exult
Them. Some return home with everything scraped
Away, bare, minimal, whittled down to 
An essential spark, nothing more than song
And soul, less than imaginings might’ve
Thought them to be, but free, free, free. Still some,
Master of disguises, return with a
Selection of cloaks that keep them secret
Forever shifting points, disappearing
Reappearing, hidden and flowing, like
Water ungraspable, shape shifters now
After years of practice and study and
Observation, able to transform to 
Anything. On this pathway, I notice
Animal prints crossing one another.

Something in the distance on the air, smoke. 
Other people, or a wildfire. A distant sign leads
To confusion at times. Our misgivings 
Can lead us toward danger, but if prepared
Anything can be opportunity.
This is not a map, each topography
Is unique. I don’t know anything, I
Have only suggestions. I don’t know if 
These clouds look welcoming or threatening to
You, I don’t know if it feels as if they
Loom or protect. Perhaps both. Do you need
The feeling of rain on your skin? Are you
Parched, dry, tired from your journey? These are
Things that you must tell me otherwise they
Are only guesses. I like to think I’m
A good observer, but I’ve been proven 
Wrong before. I don’t know who before me
Has shown you kindnesses or cruelty. I don’t
Know if I might look like them, or sound like
Them, or from a distance be mistaken
For these people. So it is as if I
Wear a skin and a body, that is not
My own. You see in me someone that I
May not be. Friend or foe, it’s uncertain. 
Out in the middle of all this vastness 
I come across the skeletal remains, 
The structure of an old home. Weathered gray
And silver, I can see that it once housed
Many, or had potential to do so.

Come back, loop around, turn your self and be
With us. Now. We are waiting for you, hope
To hear your footfalls, see your familiar 
Silhouette, your shadow cross the threshold
Of this doorway. This is what I had hoped
They would say to me. This is what I wished
To hear, either with language or without,
At the limit of understanding, or
Perhaps beyond. In this growing silence,
With languages I did not know, perhaps it 
Was neither seen nor understood. Signals 
Were missed, lost, obscured in the din of the
City and crowd. In some words clear and strong, 
Some that might be lost, some that show themselves
Later, when they are needed, or never-
This is what I wish to say to those who
Walk next to me on the path, whether in 
Long journey or short, on their way home.