A Fiction Writer Returns Home

Trees form a jawline,
a hometown profile,
which looks the same
‘cept fields are cemeteries
and four gray sky walls
form a chain-link fence.

I dig for lost compositions,
buried under the holly bush
for safe-keeping,
but the crepe myrtle trees peel
childhood poetry which
drape me like hotel sheets,
thin and itchy.
I climb into the top bunk
on concrete steps,
which now lack railing,
and ask permission to enter
a place once hoarded
as home.

Cloudy, gray hair, am I dreaming?
Time has made my life
an Impressionistic painting.

A colorful umbrella behind
a watering wagon,
which no longer black and white
is most deceiving.

© 2022 | K.Hartless

20 comments

  1. This is a lovely write. These lines are particularly beautiful

    “childhood poetry which
    drape me like hotel sheets,
    thin and itchy.
    I climb into the top bunk
    on concrete steps,
    which now lack railing,”

    Thank you again Trâm. 🦋🤗🦋

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I fear we can never go back; the gateway to my childhood closed sometime in 2013 when I could no longer access my inner child; this is a very moving, evocative poem with a marvellous painting to accompany it; the most moving song about home to me is ‘Feels Like Home’ from ‘The Notebook’ ; you probably know it —

    Liked by 1 person

    • I don’t know if I do,
      so I’m headed over to
      check that one out. But before I go, I’m going to reach over and tickle
      your inner child. Sleeping since 2013. It’s time for that bubbly boy to wake up. Thank you for this comment. I’ve been so utterly exhausted, which is really no excuse, but I’m using it anyway. 😁

      Liked by 1 person

  3. This is a lovely write, K. I enjoyed your language selection much, and the essence I received of being ensconced in nature, even when among concrete lined walkways and steps. Happy weekend, my friend. 💜

    Liked by 1 person

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