Poetry About Going Home

The bus takes the bend my body remembers first. A water tower rises above the same line of trees. At the station, my mother has become smaller with time. The house smells of soap, onions, and winter coats. I return as someone the old rooms never practiced holding. Going home means meeting what changed on both sides.

A water tower rises above the same line of trees. Return measures the traveler as much as the place. The house smells of soap, onions, and winter coats. Even going Home keeps more than one meaning in view. Familiar doors can open onto unfamiliar selves.

The bus takes the bend my body remembers first. Time carries the image beyond its first appearance. At the station, my mother has become smaller with time. I return as someone the old rooms never practiced holding. Familiar doors can open onto unfamiliar selves. Going home means meeting what changed on both sides.