I have grown careful,
quite careful,
about to whom and what
I attach myself in this life—
dreams are fragile
outside the womb of the mind.
I stand in the living room
of a home I will never see again.
I’ve done this, elsewhere, before—
said “goodbye” to the panoramic view
the furniture I can no longer house,
the memories—most important—the memories.
In an hour I will drive to the airport
in a rented van, carrying a few
works of art, my suitcase, several mementoes—
the fragrance of the trees—
and my part of the soul
of my brother, who fished
and hiked and flew kites here
not many years before.
Quoth the Raven,
“Nevermore.”
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