Last Man Standing

What does it mean to say we are of this place?
As if some adamantine tendril of the soil
Stretching always from there to here, draws back
Our orbits close, should we decide to wander.
What is this place, or that place, but dirty loam
Laid carelessly by time upon the bedrock?
Geology has time to spare: we do not.

By Conestoga wagon, or by locomotive,
Later by car, we come from there to here,
Joining with other migrants to make a home -
The tendrils of foreign shores notwithstanding -
Our feet planted in the soil, our blood mixing,
Mortaring a domicile of memory.
And what is life but recollection?

With time the tendril fails: the silver cord is broken,
And we can no longer call this place our home.
The domicile of memory is disconsolate,
While the continents pursue their aimless drift,
And others build a tower of remembrance.

For David

August 2022