Mercer Meadows

Hmm… where did you come from?
You have no memories, no name, only artifacts
in the corners of your eyes—saffron glow,
ghost shadow—and many sounds—the cries of a tree
calculating its fall, the pleas of exclosed deer,
the sky filled with the dark of the moon and beats
of an invisible helicopter—doesn’t it seem a bit low?
Who are you to say that that bird is not the god of weather?
First hear and then enter its howl.
How gentle, how wild.

Now, suddenly, you reach a small culdesac,
which was not there before, and you pass a house abandoned
and garnished with pink and yellow flowers, and you approach
the shortened basketball hoop at the mouth of the street.
This is not where you came from, this is your home.