posted on: Thursday November 19, 2015
by Abby Johnston ’17
Home is where the heart is, or so
That vague saying goes.
So now, mine would be in parts,
In thoughts with ones it knows.
One, a family most dear,
But fledglings fly the nest,
And flying turns to soaring
With every passing year.
Two, far from the sighing, mourning dove,
From granite mountains and friendly redwoods,
Among concrete plains and towers,
Confining snow and early dark hours,
I know that my new sisters there
Dear Providence did send down from above.
But some say that one belongs
In their ancestral land
Where they grew, which they walked,
And who watched their own life’s songs.
Still, some sailors claim
With water-logged hearts,
Though those strange hermits
Quite little I will blame:
Their home? It is the sea;
Nothing less, but nothing more,
They wander shore to shore,
Away from all humanity.
Perhaps I’d like to take the sailor’s ship
And wander round with you,
Exploring every road,
Riding every current,
Tossing every load,
A chapter in an endless trip.
But even sailors hold tight to anchors
To tether in storms and glide into port;
Floating round wide-open plains that roll
Will put barnacles on your soul.