Voices on the Wind
Voices from Home
by Mark Vogel
Bruno Ganz with his stately wrinkles,
his humor and insight into a thousand travels,
has matured into wisdom. If his vita lists
movies freezing his ages into accomplishments
and lovers, why am I still a child
visiting one more time this old home,
in the once permanent neighborhood?
How could the family move on without mourning
the significance of what was, and where
are Mom and Dad who held the days together?
The car creeps, and we peer at landmarks,
trying to isolate essence, though we are
afraid to see what has altered.
Aged for decades, we giggle and bump shoulders,
not at all like stately and dignified
Bruno Ganz. We are original settlers
returning maybe to meet our young parents
and our raw childhood. We see the big oak
removed, the new fence, how the pasture
has mutated into a cross country track.
But still, like essentials never changed,
squirrels jump from tall trees and skitter
across power lines, and surely inside
the house deep quiet continues to breathe,
waiting for the furnace to spring to life.
Surely the black snake which escaped from
its terrarium still lives beneath the water heater.
Strange how so much in this adult world
feels private and off limits. Maybe forever
we will look on with big eyes, and feel
gangly fourteen with fly away hair,
though in dog years we could each be Moses,
looking like Bruno Ganz, with all the ages
layered within, facing the abyss.