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To the fools, addled in spirit and

Undone of soul,

Fractured in mind and body —

Your homes, opened at hearth,

Carrying the wholeness of

Warmth and soft bed,

Turn under mortals stars.

They are balm to the weary traveller.

.

I come in supplication,

Humbled by a balance self perpetuated;

See it in the crashing of water

Against yielding sand,

The clear high notes of crimson cardinal —

Triumphant at having arisen

To meet the day by the window;

The slow long blink of the cat,

Wishing to accompany the drowsy

On a voyage to the toilet.

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And yet, as vulnerable as I appear,

I enter space of home bearing gift.

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The baking of bread, warm and buttered

Is received with gratitude.

The laughter and story, too.

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In my hands I carry the subtle light.

The fool, abject and pondering,

Recognizes it below the surface of

Thoughts and the net of wonder.

It is an in-visible brilliance, in

My hand, the hand that reaches beyond

The known, and plucks the

Un-quenching spring of being

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And this communion has made

Me a fool as well, befuddled and in-love

With the graces of small happenings:

A light and soft smile,

The tenderness of voice,

Sung in chorus, to end in screaming laughter .

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And the softer things:

A breath,

A glance

A feeling.

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All of this is new to me.

All this, home.