<roots_interlude>

a poem

last weekend i found myself in a coffee shop back in michigan — the first place i lived on my own after leaving new york, and the place that held me through a tender period of unraveling. after a delightful conversation with a stranger, this poem summoned my pen and through ink it arrived. it got me thinking about my desire to share more of my writing and musings here, so i am introducing a new segment to dreamscape, called <interlude>. to me, interludes are often what weaves a project, together. ‘between play’ is the etymology of interlude; a word created to describe the magic that exists between movement and stillness. a most sacred pause, selah. i intend to share brief musings from my life, across various mediums, in-between my longer form essays, to continue weaving the many threads of my life. i hope you enjoy the first one below, a poem called roots. 🖤

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roots

when movement is all you know, 
what does it take for a place to become a home? 
is it the familiarity you feel 
as soon as your feet touch ground, 
or the way the sky opens up for you
like only love allows? 
is it the way the smell of your favorite coffee shop 
never changes, 
even if you do? 

home. 
it’s the park bench 
at the top of the hill that 
listened to your dreams of never returning, 
but still held the weight of your thirst. 
week after week we returned,
chris and i,
waiting, listening for the call 
the kind that travels 
so thinly through the breeze 
you could almost miss it
but won’t, because 
it is yours. 
So we wait and we listen, 
and the bench sits and waits with us, 
and even if we forget to say goodbye
this place, 
whose roots holds all our tears, 
and fears — 
our joy, 
our stories remain. 
forever calling us back, 

home. 
remembers love, 
remembers all that we offered this soil 
and the seeds we have planted
no matter how far we go 
or how long, 
there is a bounty waiting 
for your hands, 
your heart. 

perhaps, then, home is where 
earth and flesh become one. 

— devyn simone 

a few pics from my trip to Michigan -- me before heading out for a walk; a photo i took to capture the birth of this poem at roos roast in Ann Arbor, MI; a scrumptious apple tart that chris made; jars of herbs from Bloodroot herbal shop in Ypsilanti, MI

Q’s for reflection/conversation in the comments:

• what does home mean to you?

  • is it a place, a person, or a feeling?

• what/who was the first to offer you this knowing, this feeling, of home?