"Words' Worth" Poetry Readings
Poets at the Culture, Arts, and Parks Committee
of the Seattle City Council.
Coming Home by April Caron
Once I was forced to leave my home, the giant oaks, the blonde grass, the rolling hills. My soul cried out for these but they were no more.
The screech owlŐs silent flight and nerve rending calls were lost.
The lake with its shady shores and sun dappled water was drained.
The fig tree whose sweet fruit and presence amidst the oaks was always such a mystery was gone.
My Mom and Dad sitting under the catalpa trees in the simmering heat. As they waited for my friends and I to return from gathering the horses were torn asunder.
For many years I wandered and searched for a new home.
From the hardwood forested hills of Kentucky to the loblolly pine flats of Georgia.
To the warm azure waters of the Persian Gulf, and the SheilikofŐs brooding, icy gray majesty.
In my travels I met many people and saw many sights, but still couldnŐt find a place called home.
Then in the marshy muskeg with itŐs wind sculpted yellow spruce over looking the deep iceberg laden waters of Prince William Sound. I finally understood that while what is torn asunder can never be recreated. New roots could be nurtured and grown.
The madrona trees hanging over the Magnolia Bluff beckoned to me as I stood on the RainierŐs rail. While we slowly steamed through Shilshole Bay, the clang of the buoys, the cries of the sea lions all called out, youŐre close, youŐre close.
Then one night in the fading light, I sat under the new crowned alder trees, the Snohomish River rushing past. My dogs gamboling at my feet on the sandy reach. I knew this is where my roots would grow. I had found my home.