by Astara
A bit like Gretel waiting between flights:
another airport, another gate, another flat dark stretch of tarmac.
Yet more like a breadcrumb
tossed onto the floor of this earth as wayfinding,
a small little morsel, a light, to guide someone home.
I have been nibbled up by the long stretch of day,
the altitude change.
The trail is invisible now.
Where it heads at each moment
feels like a guess,
but I know it is a line of choices, however faint.
Home is everywhere.
What’s hidden inside blood and bone,
inside each breath thought emotion,
stretches light across cities clouds tarmacs prairie,
connecting me to everything
and mostly, if I allow it, to myself.
