A Rootless Tree

Trees are rarely still, they dance in the wind
Free as the wind itself, though fixed by their roots
A haven for all, a home for some
They dance, they drink, and they die by their roots

I sit here watching hearing the Harbour
Feeling the cracked, dry roots and so I wonder
I wonder of ‘home', the place of our roots
Grounded and protected, simple and humbling

Home. What does it mean when you've travelled far
Scattered memories in an ever-tumbling jigsaw
Home has changed for me many times over
I'm still unsure of that place that's truly mine

Not the icy breath from the mountains near
Nor the crackling leaves under my footstep
Not the high city peaks amongst concrete lanes
Nor the touch of nature with stories entwined

My transplanted roots answer my questions
Of what place makes a home, and I realize
For what makes a home to me I now know
That it's not made of where, it is not made of when
but who

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