pieces, fragments & morsels

changing

I think about what it means to move to another country

And I sit in the bus and I Imagine the trees will look the same in spring

And the roads will be the same and the bus will jump in the same potholes

But it must be weird, that so much is the same and yet you're headed somewhere else

And it will be another place you'll come home to

I wonder if I ever will be confused by a turn I'm not yet used to

Or by a fence looking like my old neighbour's

And I wonder how much of home is the daily bus rides and the routine

If I ever will miss that

I wonder if home is actually the trees blooming in spring