Homecoming

Sometimes I feel that memory
is the only place one can ever
hope to return to.
Flipping back the scenes
of loves, troubles, insults
and little victories,
turning back the years like
dog-eared pages of a yellowing book
that exists simply because
one exists. Dreams and images.
Simple marble paper cutouts.

And sometimes, the glimpse beyond
to childhood, where whole years
smelt like summer, and games
and rich, scorching suns
and mothers rustling between rooms
passing from light to lightness
songs and folklore cradled
like infants. Women who let fall
no shadows in the sun.