[Poem] The Falls Nearest Home - bacchus

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I draw on the surface of the water

I make a fresh cut when the paint runs dry

My finger tastes of iron and art

I pack my brushes in my pockets

I stand and the sky falls

Mud, grass, and paint stain my pants

I walk beside the moonlight

I whistle as the falls behind me drum

Warm light from an open window bleeds

I return home from home

I paint with my hands

Father paints with his words

I drink hot stew and sleep in a cool corner

The night keeps me awake

The morning keeps me waiting

Hot mist and cool breeze

My canvas: wet rock

I carve a sculpture out of earth and flesh

I have never been closer to these falls

I see father

Father found the falls and father found home

I sculpt with my bones

Father sculpts with his fists

I jump from the rocks and into water

I rise out of the canvas anew

I leave my past to drown

But I return home from home