Coming home feels like turning away,
feels like the dry riverbed, silted,
tangled in dying weed, barren mud.
Coming home is leaving life and love
on far shores, with no sense of purpose;
no reason to rise with the sun, or
honour the late fire, no reason to
haul breath from the wild wind, nor to sing
love songs into a curious mist.
Coming home is lacking the essence
of home, as the river lacks water.
The coming home is without you
and yet without you is not home.