Picked up and placed, with such relative ease
a 13-hour winged tunnel that ends with
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
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.