Where do we go when we go away from here?

And what will we do when we get there?

Will we be too busy to notice

the sudden change of scenery?

I think we will not go there until we have

been here,

until we know the rightful names of the birds

who sing us out of sleep,

until we can close our heavy winter eyes

and feel the summer mud squishing between our toes,

until we can dive into dark waters unafraid.

I do not think there is going to care

about anything other than delight.

Where do we go when we go away from here?

I imagine it depends on where we are now.

 

excerpt from upcoming collection, the octopus is a stupid creature & other poems for the journey