The Transplant

Picked up and placed, with such relative ease
trans-national transition
a 13-hour winged tunnel that ends with
the  Great

Laid-over twice-over, of-course
(Calgary & Vancouver) old friends comparatively
the old crowded pot and our new turf,
wild-west and northern frontier all at once.

But the grass is exceedingly green,
the sky lends the distant mountains Doppler’s blue,
and in a quiet valley, nestled somewhere in-between
rests Us. Stressed-Serene
and missing high-speed comforts,
but never so very alive,
planted and growing in foreign soil.

In some ways it’s already more a home
than I’ve had for six years
adrift and saturated in a language not my own
and with my roots’ roots themselves uprooted.
And thus, the age-old familial cutting, pruning and planting
is underway,
as winds of will whisk seedlings borne on buoyant youth
across an expanse of land so great to have once been intraversable in a lifetime,
but which now can be had for five-hundred dollars
and the willingness to pick up and GO.

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