the vagrant

the janitor named her "wander,"

which means look at son,

you're coming undone

God knows when,

but you're doing it again.

the idealism of greener grass;

the cliche of a better place;

the adage of never knowing until you try,

have taken this girl on many adventures.

boxes, a stationwagon, and wandering soul.

why can't she settle in one place,

and trade in her tent stakes

for a foundation and some green grass?

she's been a vagrant, a rogue,

vascillating and mitigating to and fro:

her standards set higher than reality,

as though one day she will actually fly.

roving, meandering, running,

away away away.

last night she heard a voice say,

"you are not ready to leave this place,

until you leave the place in your head,"

and clarity rinsed the dirty sink

like summer thunderstorms bring

vistas, so fresh and clean, out of the haze.

"it's all smoke and mirrors, this mindset,

keeping your thoughts for companions:

they will drive you mad."

she had been deep in the forest,

wrapped in a desultory plan,

so intently analytical of the trees

that she couldn't see the prisms of light

scattered through them, shards of the sun.

it was the memory of seeing an open field,

feeling the warmth of daylight laid waste

in the back of her mind, which tormented her:

she had isolated herself, apart from everyone

and nearly everything that she loved.

how could that be better than staying?

she had been waiting, spinning in circles,

through the years of trial and error,

ebbing on the tide of mood and emotion;

silly girl, going on and on,

and now her impulses were clear,

like the path out of the forest,

aglow in bands of warm light.