Always Going Back To A Place Of Origin

IT IS as house of stone
above a hill where the grasses
have learned to survive

The sun shines all day
The moon as usual comes only
when the cicada sings

As if
sorrow has a role to play
on the uncertainty of the place

I am a constant visitor there
I murmur words to the grass
and they all listen
I sit upon the rock
and it lets me warm my butt

The place is too unlikely for one
Like me
But i always go there
To worship
What i am

You do not know where it is
And so you will never know
what i am.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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