Once, you could find me here,
harboring heartache, perched near
the top of the threadbare oak, thick
limbs unladen, and its tormented
trunk tightly twisted and leaning
in such a way I knew even then
that a truant wind would easily
topple it or incoming tides would
gently uproot it and set it upon
their wide shoulders, root-ball
eased from an estranged earth
where I’m once again breathing
air that tastes of sweet willow
and the sea, and thinking how
such days of indolence departed
upon waves I thought were
often absentmindedly moving
away from shore and taking
with them a timid wanderlust
that never, in truth, ventured
far enough, and always piously
returned like empty skiffs.
Now, daylight draws on,
drifting ever closer to nightfall
and clouds seem to fold
like a habit over the horizon
and I stand here, rootless,
still in search of my younger
self and a time when the future
was some precious place that
most resembled the wide,
empty shores of Troy.