At home once more:
flowers equal home.
equal flown, flowers equal final home,
last rest, broken and mended earth. Just as

flowers carpet paths of weddings, for hope.

​

Handful of dirt in your shoes, your pocket—this home. Handful of dirt thud & crackle
on a coffin lid—also home.

​

Much as I let my mother’s father go unflowered,

spilled his last earth home from my right hand
then pocketed both hands.
Pockets equal home for hands and what is lost, forgotten,

what needs remembrance.

Memory also is home,
and grave, pasture and cutting-wire.