Journey Onto Home Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Who knew I could be so quiet in my
Dark aerodrome in the fork of a tree
Outside of the park,
Lisped by the trepidations of the wayward
Sea:
All of my paper airplanes are parked-
The mermaids are taking baths in the waves-
A few of my favorite things are moving away
Like the red stars do-
Very few of them are blue stars:
Very few of them are getting anywhere at all,
And we are all out of blueberries,
But the people just keep coming into the store-
They are shopping and the sun is at play-
They seem to be doing this out of some necessity
For love or thanksgiving,
Or it could just be that they are out and about
And breathing,
While the rivers fall straight off the mountains,
Like ribbons unsecured from her gown,
And she becomes for him on her honeymoon,
In Crepuscule on the alluvial planes where all the
Mailboxes are panting opened tongues
In paradoxically wild straight packs until the
Morning,
The morning lights up the place and shows her
How she might quietly leave
And thus continue her journey onto home.