Coming Home II

 

The warmth of the hearth in my chest
and the breath of warm enoughness
and something like love in my throat,
a dense goodness covering —

all this: because I am home.

Because I fought the fight,
as difficult as Odysseus’ journey.
I slayed dragons, and scaled steep peaks,
laid down in a bed with fear,
and walked through the woods in the night.
A thousand trials to get home.

Yet the journey was also this:
Dorothy clicking her heels three times,
and being instantly transported there,
the moment she called for it.
Home coming like rain, like grace—
without struggle or trial or mud.

The long road and the non-road home:
perhaps we are always walking both, like train tracks.

Home on the other side of the door.
It’s as simple as knocking and as far as a thousand miles to get there.

In that home place, I can see:
nothing was ever broken.
Warmth savors up from our chests like a hearth
and love is in our throats, lunging outward,
and the world becomes a basket of gifts,
and we sit in it, and look around,
and tears rise, at the intensity of it.

– Tara Mohr

 

photo credit: Tj Holowaychuk