A Letter Home Hoping to Reach You Soon

I don’t remember knowing you.

I am only familiar with your name

your complex jargon,

lexicon, plus ardent-

strides of your offspring.

 

I am familiar but with a few flavors on your table-

cloth that carries the scent of starchy roots drawn from the earth,

rice of my complexion,

sauces of fish and meat-

coffee grounds and sweet-

breads that holds a warm place

In hearts across your land-

where rivers holding secrets from East

whisper tales while you slumber deep.

 

I am new to this feeling.

 

Father.

Land.

Hand.

 

My time left here to greet you is sinking.

Sand.

and I know you await me.

Open gates bearing symbols,

Signals,

Cymbals may clash and awake me.

The reminder that I am here.

 

Still.

Father.

Land.

 

I see your hand in all that I do. All that I make.

Your son is afraid.

 

All that chalk, and mud, blood and raw materials, brass arrows with dots and crossed ethereal.

 

You.

 

Your son is afraid.

This you already know.

 

I’m from that other line. Support staff.

Crafting and making. Cooking and Baking.

Sharpening and shaping all that you’d be proud to use in putting up the resistance.

 

To include an inside reference is outside me. No parallels can be drawn from the inside here.

Open always, I am, to the possibility that sometimes someone there thinks of me.

Knowing that I’m growing and that time does pass-

Through glass and empties the other side.

My side.

For yours is forever full-

Holding seed and soil.

 

Wait for rain.