Anemoia: In the Hour of Long Shadows

A poem about homes

I’ve sought parts unknown for as long as I’ve had a heart - 

but like a coward.

From the passenger seat, my forehead against the glass I am

breathing in the lemon colored light that falls out between curtains
and setting myself on the couch in front of the flickering blue glow of hidden television screens.
I test, and taste, each house we pass on our way home -

a waking dream - a dangerous game.

This one welcoming. This one lonely. This one no good at all.

In the hour of long shadows,
ribbons of sun
weave themselves into the branches the grasses the air.

But I’m not ready to leave behind the smells of someone else’s cooking. 

I seek out the secrets the floorboards cover, 
and see the shoes that make those floorboards bend.

This one is struggling. 
This one is thrivingbloomingradiant. 
This one beautiful, and grief, like water damage, has stained everything anyway.

And when the houses all run out, but we are not yet home,
there are long shadows,
ribbons of gold,
and grasses that I think would welcome me. 

I would not be lonely surrounded by crickets, and low-hunched hares -

it would feel good to let the last of the day melt into the wild ground -

it would feel good to wear the cold silk night on my shoulders -

While the cars on the road, not far from here, rumble and hush, as they carry their cowards home.

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Reiz Sen Senos Laikos