Home Is Where My Mother Is, by Tamara Miles

Home is where my mother is, absent,
Green. Or is it where my daughter’s life is spent,
all bloom and beauty-full and content,
at seventeen. Is home somewhere in between?
In the aromatic sense of these two,
In the memories I keep,
In the bounty of grain growing deep
In the fields, sowing what I reap.
I gather home to me with each breath,
a train coming down the track bent,
noisily puffing, gasping my lament,
hurrying home, hardly seen.