It’s likely the deer and wild turkeys will be
the first churches you see when you arrive
home. And next, the leaves ringing Autumn’s
bells. Don’t expect to see a busload of Japanese
tourists pouring into your back yard, their selfie
sticks, batons really, directing the orchestra
of geese, tuning their throats, arranging their ties
and formal dresses, before the lights dim,
the curtain ruffles in the overture’s breeze.
Try not to be surprised by how quickly you might
forget the sights you were amazed by, the true
stories, called history, carrying you from one city
to the next, one graveyard to another day’s free
and ticketed museum. Shoes and hair, Liberation’s
army recovered, piled like stones and sealed
in a glass tomb for memory to remember itself by.
For you to think of as the grass waiting to be mowed,
now that you’re home. Summer chairs needing to be wiped
down, stored for the winter, in your basement, you can tell
your friends, has become a wine cellar, a catacomb
in the days of your absence.
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall