The Yellow Brick Road
They said the bricks were going to be made of gold.
They said we need your gold to pave the road.
They said the bricks will be paved by your family’s good name.
They said that. They laid the bricks. The mortar bricks.
Around the fountain they laid the bricks.
The family names circled around the fountain.
The one with your family name was there.
Then the tree in which you slept was cut down.
You climbed another tree. It was a ginko. It was cut down.
You climbed another tree. It was a fir. It was cut down.
You climbed another tree. It was an oak. It was cut down.
You returned to the fountain. The brick was gone.
The tree in which your family name was grown is gone.
Even the stump has been uprooted.
The foundations, cracked by its roots, have been repoured.
The name upon which your own feet once trod is nobody’s.
The tree they planted near the fountain is not right.
The tree they planted near the fountain has not been left.
The tree they planted is not mine again.
The tree they planted is not yours either.
The names upon which we tread are no more.
The names upon which we built are no more.
The names upon which we relied are no more.
The bricks, not gold, do not lead to gold.
The bricks are not really bricks but you.
The tree is not really a tree but me.
There is no place to sleep but under me.
There is no way on which to walk but mine.
The truth of all you have and call your own
is not me but what you call your own.
So call me your own and I will make your home.
I go before you to prepare a room,
so keep your lamp lit
until I come again
to steal you away
and give you my name.