You are not who you were
which is not 
                   to say
                           you are no longer who you were
but that
I see you different-
   so differently now.


Through eyes that opened
     only over
time
and so I come back here now
and 
at first, feel
nothing.
No sinking, no sublimation.
Feelings as flat as this land,
until I drop in the grass
                                and remember not who
you were but who I was.


The dreams I birthed here, along with two baby girls
             and your kindnesses shown me- 
                                                             my art. Remember?
                                                                    And I see that we tried here in the field of dreams for a                                     miracle
but it was not heaven,
                  nor was it hell.  It was -
                         what?
Vast space for trying.  I've realized lately that I'm not much good at anything
but
    trying.
My talent is for trying.


It's the air and
      the breeze of this state.
My aspirations swaying like the clothes
                                   I hung on the line in the back yard.
                                                                     The clouds trick memories with
                                                                      their fat 
                                                                               fluffiness, prompting pretty
                                                                                                 promises.
                                                                                                       Maybe it wasn't your fault.
But I can't come
back or go back
because, also, your arms around me,
that sensation is 
       so vague, I have my doubts
              as to its truth.


And we departed like thieves in the night,or rather,
                               I did, you'd left much earlier and somehow I knew I was leaving for good and      


taking my heart with me, there would be no turning back.


And I see two people we sort of knew
                   within the first hour
and why do I blurt out 
                             to the
second?
Maybe 
        because the first has read my words and knows
              and so when I tell it to
                                      the next and she asks
if it
was my choice, I pause just long enough
                                              that my answer sounds a bit less than 
 honest.  And then it's awkward, me sharing
                                        with a stranger.  I don't miss this lack of
                                                anonymity 
                                                at all.


It's funny how places have a way of defining, how they represent so much. 
                How they transport
in our blood so that even a three year old seems to sense that she belongs here, if only by 
           birthright.
           "I want to
be alone here," she tells me.  And I get it.
                                                          It's how I feel enveloped by the heat
                                                                                                                    and
                                                                                                                         driving past low, brown mountains. She
marks the need by lack of city noise and softer weather.  
                                               I envy her in a way, 
                                                                        wondering why
this place can't
              call me.
Why I feel only a hazed sense of familiarity here.  There's still
           few places or people I want
                                                        to see.


Sitting close to my mother,
wanting this closeness
         I see what 
                         this place means to her,
                        that she knows it's in
                         her blood.
I understand.  I see that she, too,
chooses isolation here and also
               I see why I do not.


These homes, temporary though
they are,
give illusion of permanence and though our minds chart many a course, our hearts stay
                         planted.
But I just wish I could remember us better.  Here or there or anywhere.  It's fading so quickly   
now.
    Was it ever real?
Or was this 
             time and place laid low
                                        like a shadow, an imitation of our
                                                                            thoughts?