Grown without roots,
still stalwart in my old age,
I'll fall swiftly.
That's the advantage for rootless things,
not to be regretted.
The back seat of a blue '36 Buick
was all mine, their tall backs
topped by heads looking forward,
talking forward, were
my parents. We travelled.
Lights racing by as I tucked in
for the night, or shadows scurrying
across hotel ceilings, traffic still passing,
are fondest memories. The murmur
of their voices.
Words were my soil, books
rocks I wrapped around. Friends
blossomed in my mind.
Rootless things do not exist long,
But I do.