On Finding Home: spoken

I traveled
   and looked for home
in the texture of every street,
   block by block
in each stranger’s pace.
   Some smiled, some waved
some not
   dim in the current
of daily, weekly, monthly
   yearly routine.
Try not to fade, I told them
   with each line in my face - 
muscles are the strangest things
   when it comes to eyes, lips, cheeks
and forehead creases.
   Try not to sink…
I am from a place
   not far from these grains
in wood and stone
   and worker’s sweat
where nothing was decided for me.
   My father would warn
against his profession
   which lost me at times;
my pride could not reason sage
   or translate the runes of his face
but always I grew into my own feet
   in places I often did not know.
The wilderness of youth
   became ocean to my ways.
Now at night I trace the stars,
   and when I travel
I look for home.