When you arrived—your new home—

How much did you make it

Like your old? Did you choose

A similar climate, with the summer

Wind? This land that almost held

You like when you were young,

Outside in nature, did you travel

Back to the beginning? I am

Your ancestor. I do not see

The fates, nor feel the fibers

As you possibly remember. I don’t

Hear your homeland speaking to me

About how I might return someday.

All I taste is the air

I cannot breathe when I imagine

Not being here, where you saved

The family. I know love, loss,

And, a tie to this land.

Because of you, if I returned

Back to your homeland, I might

Not see how to live easily

Without the scent of Oregon myrtle

Trees, alder shade, and the harvested

Leaves used to season with summer

Flavors. I would miss the scents

In the river fields where flowing

Grass grows through sandy loam dirt

Ground deep below the old sea.

Some say to leave the home

I have known, should I believe

This land’s peace will always follow

The generations who know the stories

And keep the subtle attachments maintained?

Given enough time, I am told,

The new wilderness becomes the old

Village. I say your daily prayer—

May all trails lead me home.