He Who Wanders

I sit under the eyes
Of striped birch trees
Whose roots raise the earth
Around me like a mossy bed.
The grass prickles
The bristles along my skin,
And the ants march
Over me as though
Right there,
In the damp, musty soil,

I belong.
Yet, the sun drips down
The cloudy blue walls
And the dark is long overdue.
I must go.
I must leave this place
Where the forest molds
Itself around me,
Bidding me to stay
No doubt. But

Life is not a home
To lay down your burdens
And settle into the embrace
Of boughs and leaves
As you rest and rest.

You don’t belong there.
Your life is on the road
Amidst the bellows
Of the churning storms
Of white-lined asphalt. Onward
From house to house,
Homeless. And you’ll lose
A chunk of yourself
And gain another,
And lose and gain
And lose and gain
On and
On and
On, wrapped in memories.