The story starts at home. Even though the structure may not withstand the rigors of time, the energy of home is locked within our hearts, and that is where the story begins. The ghost of this Susquehanna house still lives inside my mind as someone's home every time I drive by.
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
I drove down Susquehanna
and your hazy road shivered,
as I recalled, where your lonely
dignity once stood proud.
Palpable white and silver stones piled
near, lingering echoes of crashing memories,
mortared phantom dust settling on
a disappearing silent home.
A child playing hopscotch on a
ice-cream dripping, making patterns
of splintered star bursts,
red and yellow tulips,
cracking the green earth,
blessing your door step:
all vanishing in one day.
And in the moonlight,
searching the arc of your site,
a bony tree waves goodbye
and I bless your vacant