is true attendance, no matter what
my migratory friends say. i embrace
the freeing irony of commitment, tell
myself my feet are rooted in rich loam,
with room to wiggle toes,
widen, expand. i may wake up
in cement shoes tomorrow,
but the poems i compose in my mind
are physical as tread marks on highway,
and my dusty floors are a published tome.
work is work and home is home and my flight is
hearth fire, my high is connection,
and my harvest is habit, pattern--
unlocking, undressing, settling in.
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