Neo- Nomad

Vagabond, humming- bird hearted fluttering to and fro sipping the sweetness ( often the bitterness) of this thing called life. Migratory Migrant like a Monarch wafting with tiger- striped wings on beguiling winds. Wanderer. Rambler. ( though no rose) meandering like ancient rivers ( Langston's and others) Drifter. Gypsy waif. Daughter of diasporas. Eternal exile. Expatriate. Unrooted yet, with roots sown about. Fronteirs crossings and constant resettlings these, my only birthright. And now I think of my father's flight into Austria revolutionary refugee walking westward past barbed wire guard towers mines carrying mere memories of- Molotov cocktails Soviet tanks and Budapest burning. But father, at least you lived to see your hated Iron Curtain finally ripped down... While here, I straddle another border it divides South from North not East from West. Now, I cross other bridges not the one at Andau, ( Michener's book) where you stood. And I know that I, pale, auburn- tressed stand out from these caramel-colored obsidian- haired hordes scuttling back and forth on the El Paso del Norte Lerdo Zaragoza for father like you, I've landed on foreign soil. Here, in Juarez there aren't any mines or tanks ( not yet) still, barbed wire seperated sides keeping peace and justice as sought-after abstractions. Though father, like you I too, dream though I've turned pacifist with age and so, hold not even a rusty rifle in these poet's hands. No, I am armed with mere words still, let them alight and burst into flame flaming not in destruction, but with warmth and light. Glowing words poetry- burning bright.