Coming home is
the arc of the bridge,
the struts making
shadows on the water’s edge.

The waves shyly
showing their tips now and
then, gulls screeing
for all that lives below.

Coming home is
the piney woods, each trunk
skinny in it’s
efforts to find the sun.

The tops, feathery
and fragrant, waving in the
salty breeze. Dancing.
Pine needles cushion the floor.

Coming home is
the grist mill pond, still
and green, feathers
floating, the goose still hissing.

The ghosts of
lantern boats from summer nights
long past, the
laughing of children still echoing.

Coming home is
hard, and yet once you
get there, it’s
so familiar, it calls you

from so many
memories written in the sand
in the places
your footsteps still are outlined.

Coming home is
the curving of the dunes
and the rocky
shore, seaweed scattered all over.

The lifeguard chair,
towering high above it all
still needs paint,
while continuing to stand sentry.

Coming home is
the grasses of the salt
marsh, gold and
red and teaming with life.

The red winged
blackbird, the thrush, the
creatures hidden within
it’s depths, calling to you.

Coming home is
all that and more, welcoming
the parts of
you that wish you’d stay.


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