I’m from here
but I don’t belong here
here
is not home
home
where I exhale
the set for my night dreams
my heart fit
this place is just fit
movie set
fast breath
big lips and small dogs
tight butts in tight jeans
skinny spandex, white teeth
tidy coiffed landscapes
and green
green
rolling in dough
(k)needed by mountains
of gold

As I wander
the trees root more solid
than I remember
all thickness, texture and joy
they invite climbing
and stretch beams
one gaze not enough
to harvest all their races…
bougainvillea in four flavors
hibiscus in two
bottle brush, lemon, eucalyptus
exotic pods and broad leaves
hummingbirds and gold finches
in November
palms of diverse size and shape
curious like Dr Seuss trees
whimsical
birds of paradise
this is paradise
to a spirit of stone
and sand

Yearning wells.
Things grow easily here
the desert is hard
desert people stark
cracks shift cracks
disturbing
the ancient sedimentary rock
of memento and heart
like the Whittier quake
I collect familiar leaves
like memories shaken loose
oak, magnolia, liquid amber, birch —
my mother knew them all.
She is a bird now
above I spy others
fly like her
I must have met them before
wild emerald parrots
up a spiky trunk
chatting atop slender fronds
unnoticed and mundane
yet I stand
cocked
agape

People smile more than I remember.
They say hello from their bicycles
sing while riding solo
talk to babies in strollers
cross the street with traffic
their grass is thick
sprinkled with tiny shamrocks
like abundant good fortune.
I wonder if they know what it’s like
to live in a desert
make sure everything is always locked
and held tight
middle class here is wealthy rich anywhere
I see it
but no longer believe that
all money is sin
all poverty virtue

I crave ease.

Maybe my parents were right
I waste and surround myself
with the not-good-enough
while the not-yet-good-enough
still isn’t

Things are now changed.
I root more solid
broad feet planted
trunk thicker
taller branches wide
eyes clearer
sternum forward
I’m ready now
I belong better
I still believe
just no longer sure where I believe it

Maybe it’s time
to come home.

©S.Rinderle, November 2014