Come Home

I asked my voice: “Where have you gone?”

And it responded in images the mind could never decipher, a torrent cascading through my heart.

Yet still, a shadow;

the wet and weeded

garden grows,

weary.

Who was it that said Crow is ugly?

From where do such thoughts spring?

You think you must walk alone.

In the winter,

you think you are.

But if you will trust

your heart more

than the clench

in your gut, you will know.

Trust your heart.

It’s Image,

makes the world:

The fallen color

of autumn, transparent.

Barren

upon the ground,

the hearth,

warmth

is retreating,

into Silence:

a song

of the life that

springs

from falling away.

Will you rise

to meet it,

I wonder?

This is your life,

after all:

your one and only

true love.

What sort

of Dream

will you Dream

into Being?

Bright, vivid, resounding

Voices are calling to you:

Where have you gone?

Come home,

come home.