Ithaca

This morning, as I was going through papers, I found this old poem. It has been a while since I posted, but here it is!



It is not the orange red leaves

That multiply and scatter

That find themselves back again

Closer to where they began



Not even the cold cold chilly mornings

I wish the heat were on

Already

I wish I lived in a place warmer

And closer to bare feet

The ones I used to walk on as a little girl

And scorch the flat side


And like it



All the nots and wishes

And remember whens and

Looking back

And , and

It is not that



Then, when I remember

I remembered I remembered back then

And wished, even as a young child

I had been someone or somewhere else



It is now

Not those nots

But the ones

I bury deep in my throat

That I finally unclench

That I look

And realize

It is all of these

And the leaves

And the cold

Cold

And the turning

Of everything

Including myself


And I am here.