Moving to Our Tenth House in Twenty Years

Heavy boxes slide on the floor—
essential things accumulated over
the years. Empty now
are the shelves, lockers and cabinets.

Two years—
of filling this space—of people living
in this seeming fortress near the church
with broken bell tower.

The weeds are tall around
the house—taller than the weeds
that litter the yard of the church
with the broken bell tower.

The plants sit quiet in front of the parsonage—
patiently,
they endured the sun, they reveled
when drenched
by the waters
from the sky, enjoyed the kisses
of the dew. Now
they shall be moved:
Moved
to a place they never knew.
The colors leave
this house today.

Rooted,
how can the trees be moved? They refuse
to leave though they want to. They cannot
unless they are cut
down to the roots.

Cabinets and chairs, the washing machine and the fridge,
the tables and racks, dividers—all
lined up on the lawn, waiting
impatiently for yet another moving—
and this is not the final one—
just a part of a tired routine,
endless moving, never setting
down on a single place for a long time.

It goes on, we move,
we arrive, only to move
again and again to another place. Today we shall arrive
to another house—
beside a church—
never our own.