In 63 years
as a refugee,
I have never really
unpacked, not once.

Every place
is just a place.

People arrive
and disappear.

Home, hearth
and household
do not adhere
to me.

This morning
rain drips
from the trees;
birdsong
fills the air;
in the mist
across the road
from my cloud cabin
three deer graze.

A good place,
but not home.

I belong nowhere;
I will not stay here;
I know that.

I am the shade
of a Long Hunter,
always passing through,
never settling,
or a Hungry Ghost,
observing, remarking,
but never involved.

I am not
a determined king
and no Ithaca
awaits me,
no rooted bed
or loyal hound.

Yesterday
I followed a path
through the woods
that went nowhere,
simply ended.

Perfection,
of a kind,
existing for itself,
no reason
or destination,
just a way.

But it is my path,
and I will follow it.
- mce