Back in the rain-kissed
arms of August,
a quicker recovery
than expected.
You peek from
the shadows and clouds,
and I can’t help but smile
at your teasing.

We were not made
for the dry rigidity
of the city,
or surface games
with strangers —
and missing
the fluid depths
of summer,
grow unreasonable.

Now you send this
abundance of flowers,
sticky, honeyed air,
the croaking of herons
and goldfinches at play,
trees shedding morning rain
like diamonds,
deer in the river
and all the million ways
that life
is alive.

All the creeping
pain melts away,
and the bars
bend and shatter.

And I had thought
that to bring your feet
to earth again,
and to seek out
those places
where time and weather
have eroded
would be
to make you more real,
and so,
less a miracle.

But instead,
I find that
every word,
every shadow.
every scar
seen or hidden
only intensifies
the sun.
And we rise
on waves
of wet wind
and heat,
until it seems
there is no coming down.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Home”

  1. Lindy Lee says :

    Home resides in the mind. You have given it words…

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