The trees are beckoning:
You’ve not written about us for a while.
Poor blighters!  They’re still barebones,
or naked, like babies,
nothing to write home about!

And, anyway: Where is home?
It is not in the least clear.
One thing, though:
since there’s nowhere to write I can call home,
it may be here. 
 

A good place to raise a family

Billed as a good place to raise a family,
but I didn’t bring mine along;
I never went back for my children.

A good place, I muttered, to raise a family,
as the mini-van passed me a moment
after I had crossed the street in front of it,
no pale, angry faces peering out,
no derisory toot of the horn.
 

Make Yourself At Home!

I shall try to obey, then,
to make myself at home,
that is, align that sense of being at home
with whatever situation I find myself in – 
I was at home there and I’m at home here –
to superimpose it over whoever I may be.
In other words, try not to make too much of it, 
not to let nostalgia overwhelm me,
regret get the better of me, and so forth.
And as one moves deathwards, to coin a phrase,
it’s as well, surely, to bring home along with one,
locating it at least where one happens to be,
even if not whither one is travelling,
the trick, I dare say, being to place it there, with the door open,
precisely at the very moment when one happens to be entering.