The distance between two

Maps hold secrets within their folds.
They know that miles
can be compressed to inches,
but the distance remains vast.
The span of an arm
now touches a changed world
with customs and language
unknown and frightening.
I follow the familiar old roads.
I know the landscape well,
each curled tendril,
each inch of skin,
every line, every bump, every scar
as familiar to me as my own.
But I am a tourist here now,
and this once was home.

Copyright 2005.

poetry