This spring I bite the garden 
where in the morning sun lives an octopus olive tree, its tentacles 
growing slowly while I am gone choosing light. 
The light, this strange animal that changes colour with location, 
making sounds that can’t return. The further south 
I travel  
the farther from home and all I've learned to lose.
Souther I go the more washed the trace behind me, and 
remembering all that makes me: I’m no longer home.
Maybe what changes is the light?
But doing the maths of all the things I've lost I can’t be the same: 
the friend to passion, 
the doves that returned but not my father, the storks, 
the tea plant, and the trees turning colour. That’s why we grow greys: we too 
lose colour, dissolving into light. And we return home 
the way we return to light. If only you would leave 
that train, turn south and choose light.
Come! Meet me at this window I keep open for you.