Roots

Where are my roots?

My mother, my father or my home
whose walls still scream and cry like me
Perhaps, in my grandfather’s library
in my town of white orchids and bluebells
of winding paths, and St. Paul’s Parish
In the songbirds on the old white tree
that Sr. Emrencia told us about
In the blue mountains and stone temples
of my misty, pine bordered home?

Nowhere… Nowhere…

Not even my yellow Raggedy Ann
or my Ma’s pistachio sari
or the copy of Wuthering Heights
from old England

I find no roots, thus uprooted
and tossed away,
another autumn leaf blowing away
I’m in the arms of the wind
I look back for some sense of home
and I find none,
I look forward, and am overwhelmed
at how strange everything looks
I cry and I cry, a scared little bird
seeking safety, only finding danger
Where is home?
Where IS home?

Then I think of those I’ve known
and I realise…
Perhaps some don’t have roots in places,
or in spaces they inhabited
Perhaps those like me
only make homes in the people they love
and know
and meet

©

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