I’ve walked past you every single day this past fortnight.
Twice a day, on occasion.
At first, I spared you only a brief glance, so intent was I on reaching a predetermined destination.
Until one day the wind lifted your sunlit flaxen tresses and they swayed in a private waltz.
I still walk the same path every single day but now I pause at your feet and rest a hand on your trunk.
I tell you about my day and I ask you about yours.
You tell me about everything your highest branches can see, and I tell you everything my mind shows me.
I talk to you of all the dishes I cooked today, and you regale me with tales of the mourning doves and robins that have come back to perch on your branches.
It amazes me how you, who never moves from where you’ve laid roots, and me, whose steps are confined to this path and the sidewalk that leads to my home, have so much to talk about.
I am the weary traveller, my mind still wandering to all the places my body is forbidden to go to, and you are the home I have always yearned to come back to.