Home Sickness


Deltas, bluffs, sandbars, mooring, buoys, piers, driftwood

I miss the Mississippi, I wish I could float on home.

It was never a blue river.  The rivers here in Portland are earthy, too.  Still, the brown waters of the Mississippi were a great comfort when I was blue.  I remember taking the bus downtown and walking  over to the river view at Confederate Park.  I sat on a park bench next to the old cannons, wondering if I’d ever launch.

If I was more energetic, I could go down to the water’s edge and put my feet in it — usually touching it was enough.  Often seeing it was enough.  The flow — the rolling along.

I wanted so badly to get out of  Memphis.  Now that I’m firmly rooted here in the Northwest — where other rivers roll along & carry away my blues — I pine for it all the time.  The place itself seems like magic — but I miss my sister, my family, all the beautiful friends I have there.

Is autumn the time of universal longing for home?

My rivers are the Mississippi & Wolf
rivers run through me,
all rivers run to oceans
I dream of floating
more than I dream 
of flying
floating is an easier dream
I can do it while still
to fly 
I will first have 
to die

Home is an idea — an illusion that weighs heavily on my heart, that floats like a raft in my stream