Poem: At Home

At Home

I should go back inside,
not waiting longer,
returning right away.
It is time,
will be late, even,
by some standards,
will be trouble,
a problem.
I am always causing
a problem,
wanting and needing.
I do not want it,
but it is the way it is.
All of it is proper,
as a way of knowing and being,
a response to what is.
The tree grows up and down,
the roots spread
and speak through the earth
to so many others.
I long to feel rooted again.
We are leaving too much behind.
I have no strength,
did not even have it, then.
I am not sure what to say or so.
The tree is one with the forest.
How do I speak of it?
I must.  It is all here.
I am not certain what can be, any longer.
It is lost.  It is
lost.

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