Sunday, May 24, 2009

But I have




I am homesick for a place I have never been, 
a place I have never seen. 
Yet, as I wander on the thin map of my life, 
there are places where home finds me, 
there are ways I make it home. 

I remember a table at Stone Oven -
the old Stone Oven -
a pad of paper, a smooth pen, 
her whole self  listening. 

I remember a song sung in a simple church.  
A man, a guitar, three hundred
eyes looking at me as I spoke from 
the second beat of my heart, 
the one that pushes out truth. 

I remember the first time 
I kissed her in the spring outside.
Her lips warm, her face warm, 
her smell like the garden she was planting. 

I remember a day in the pouring rain, 
I remember a toddler wobbling toward me, 
I remember a bridge over a small creek. 

I remember a catch, a car, a star dotted sky. 
I remember six women appearing to circle the bed, 
I remember the last tear I saw on my mother's face. 

I do not have your silent husband, 
I will never have your daughter, your grown son, 
your baby Maya, your new parish to pastor. 
I will never know the still face of a younger sister, 
the vibration of a cello beneath my fingertips. 

But I have a home out there 
that keeps trying to find me, 
who keeps extending her soft hand, 
that faithfully remains, 
so familiar, so patient, 
so willing to wait for me. 

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