Where Did The Llamas Go? {or, Being There With You} Poem by S. R. Lavin

Home is a mountain
I do not live on.

My life burned to the ground
before the Fire Department
left the station.

In the remote stretches
of a deep forest
I am lost but being lost seems
to make me feel secure.

For many years I kept a photograph
on the window sill
I’d taken with a cheap Kodak,
a picture of a field
full of wild flowers.

Finally, the picture of the flowers faded

and all I could see
or remember
was

being there with you.