Here is Where
All day the wind blew
the trees against the house,
and my old ears
heard the hearty breeze
as a roaring river,
the kind that swells
in spring,
the kind that swallows
half made nests
the wind shakes
from the breast
of tight bushes
and tosses
carelessly
towards the sky.
Inside I wander,
room to room,
searching for some trace
of the self
I just this morning
left in that corner,
or under those stairs,
or,
I could have sworn,
on the hanger
next to the scratchy gray cape
nobody wears.
I’ll get tired, I know.
My legs will protest,
and I’ll hear a cup of tea
calling to be made.
The wind will slam
something solid
against the siding,
insisting on inspection.
The doorbell may ring,
the emails chime,
the text messages
which make a stream of song
mysterialize
from another room—
all will
summon my attentions,
and when I stop looking
for the self I lost
here, somewhere,
near,
I’ll settle with the cats,
who always tell the truth,
and ask them
where I am,
who and why,
and their answer will be
same as always—
You are right here
silly human.
You are always right here.
–Melinda Coppola
