Wanderlust Poem by Lori Boulard

Home Sweet Home
Is stuck crooked to her suitcase
And worn into the soles of her shoes.
Her timepiece is always correct
Somewhere.
Her freckles have names like Venice and Chang Mai
Each with its own story to tell,
Her camera now more an extension of herself,
A third eye with mega pixel vision and better memory.

Her shoulders have felt the weight of the world
Lifting children who smile through hunger
As they beg for candy in the street
And giggle at redheads on the bus.

Her home is quiet proof
That the world can indeed coexist peacefully
Together in the china cabinet.

Growing restless in familiarity,
An atlas rests on her nightstand
To inspire dreams of another language
Any other language.
She is not running away
But running toward.

When she returns from each adventure
Her magic bag unfurls,
Exploding with culture hardly contained by nylon walls,
Like Felix the Cat
Or giddy Santa out of season.
Each toy and trinket a proud piece of that place
And gentle salute to those hands
That not only need to create,
But want to.

And as the little ones explore these toys from space,
They too will hear a voice that says, “come”
And someday surrender to the wanderlust
That has ripened her smile and her soul.