Someplace called home

The things that trouble me

Now, troubled me then

Worn out hollowed ghosts 

Of promise, of potential, of

The aching mind yawp of

What, who, where.

Becoming is not such a

Simple thing as growing old,

And living is not just

Not dying.

I don't have this figured,

But should, I guess,

In the vanity of 

Existence this seems

Important.

Perhaps it isn't.

Maybe the troubles are

Baked in and the

Living is filling life

With its succour.

To stretch into every

Moment rather than

Shrink away.

To permit the world to take

All it will from me, to

Give up my energies, my life

To something, someone,

Someplace.

Someplace that can be

Home. Someplace that

Matters, where my roots

Reach deep into the

Bedrock of existence

Where the trees talk

My language, the

Streams, the trails,

The mountains.

Perhaps the point of

Life is to find a place

To live, to find a

Place to someday die.