It rests on four legs, much the same it did back then,
though its edges a little rounder, it’s top etched with memories
of a time long forgotten when I’d share the troubles of the day
and lick the salt of my wounds.
It was a comfort, a constant in a busy life,
much like these hands were when pain sunk beneath the skin,
when all else seemed to fail the words knew of a way to release,
to explain and understand.
And now Home is a new place,
with four different walls, full of possibilities,
where new memories can be made upon a new surface,
this time not as formal, not as many a soul,
just the two of us.
These hands clasp a different pen, this one not as hapless,
sometimes still in need of a poem, but unable to
form the same way, with the same feeling.
Often I return to where it all began,
to reminisce and share stories of now,
of this chapter, this beginning.
But it’s different,
It’s less needing, less purposeful,
It rests on four legs, but it’s not the same as it was back then,
It is in a place where anger and resentment engulfed me,
where I felt lost, and alone,
and I’ll let it stay that way, for it is yesterday,
it is a time long gone,
