Wanderlust

I go on
feeling raw like the trees whose winter
has stripped their frock.
This body devoid of your existence languishes,
but its profuse heart remains cemented.

The absence of frolic in your eyes
I withdraw to your barren oleanders
to watch them unfold at your concord.

I look for you in the incalculable sky
and the unforgiving dirt that has
swallowed you prematurely.
I feel for you in the wind's gallop,
blowing through my hollowed shell.

The smell of earth,
I am the gardener whose tears fertilize
your home.