“Goodbye.”

Fall carries you
home (a knock is unwelcome)
back to familiar cereal ceremonies,
wagging tails, flannel pjs and animal paintings
that only talk to children caught trespassing in wonder

The wanderer's guild
has, like the obese cattails in October
confronted the winds and rode the backs 
of mighty geese
keeping survival in check
taking you home again

The wanderer's guilt seeds old memories
spent receiving fatherly pats and motherly smiles 
(each one is a weight fixed on your shoulders):
''Be careful out there,” with homemade jam

Clenched in a hug, tears repressed with okays
you stare out the open door at your motionless car
see Mr. Squirrel gathering gifts from the oaks
and you think this is how to protect
a family against death

You’re at the door; you utter a convention to go:
“Be safe,” but cannot muster anything in return
except the pies you are carrying – another weight -
neatly wrapped in tin foil
so that home can travel with you
as you wander off again

(The Anishinaabe had no word for ''goodbye'' – 
they never left a soul behind)

© Adam Welsh