They say you can’t go home again.
But that is if you don’t have a home,
if your home has closed like a pocket
in the earth, sewn shut by galled stems
of diseased leaves and brittle colors,
every indication of an ending.
Nothing is ever permanent,
my friend. Nothing guaranteed.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright June 1, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
