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Home, coming.

by Aaron Blair

Home, coming in a metal bird that's
nothing but a silver speck in an
otherwise pristine spring sky.
The fields below make an American quilt;
the earth tilled to every shade of brown
and divided by the stitch-work
of homogeneous suburban housing tracts.

The city is flat, bowing low to the heavens,
no tall buildings stabbing up like knives,
gouging their way into the atmosphere.
The airport subsides. I stand on the
soil of my growing place, the roots
interconnected and whispering below me.

We leave the metropolis, the red of brick
and grey of concrete giving way to pasture
green. The farms come, rolling by, the ideal
of the country presenting itself for eager eyes.
Even the field smell of dirt and manure
is welcome, the ugly black cows, the
skinny lines of barbed wire fences.
Everything stands still for my perusal.
"We knew that you would come back."

This land is gentle, unassuming. It should
not fit me, not tuck itself against the
curves of my body like a sleeping lover,
but it does. It says nothing, taking
in the new scars, the new clothes,
the alterations to a form it once knew.
There will always be time, later,
for becoming, once again, familiar.
We understand one another. I, too,
have been sewn back together from
parts cut into careless pieces.

09/09/2005

Author's Note: A poem for the writing.com slam final round. We were supposed to write two poems, one positive, one negative, about the same subject. This is "Indiana? Yay!"

Posted on 09/10/2005
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 09/10/05 at 10:32 AM

I agree with Don. Excellent poetics, strong expression/images from start to finish. Hat's off to ya!

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