we had twelve addresses,
anyone would have
taken us for nomads.
Every place, every person
we knew and loved,
was left behind again and again,
all to be resumed time after time.
Home was separation, wholeness.
Food was the basic understanding
that nothing was ours to keep,
that all things are transient.
Written for MZ's NaPoWriMo prompt over at the Imaginary Garden.
The title is a line from Mary Oliver's poem In Blackwater Woods which I really adore.