The Still Travail

I’ve been nowhere for years,
save the backyard. Once,
high at the gutters with wet leaves,
whirlies and grit, I saw Khartoum
and Petra. And once, from the maple,
cutting a rogue limb, I saw Rio
and Milan, all among grass clippings
fermenting in bags, wood fires
and propane, burnt steaks
and green treated lumber, crosscut
for a shed the next sea over,
rolled in on a teal breeze,
as olive Oaxaca sings in the currant bush,
mottled Caracas mates in the apple blooms,
and black-tipped Tulsa, high on a thermal –
nowhere gone too soon.

Image: John Yunker on Unsplash

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