Coming Home Tomorrow

Even on my worst days

I am moving towards it

First this, I say, and then that.

First, slow and stuttering and small

And then:

A sandy desert garden

Where the people are gentle

And the sky is a pale stretch of blue

The colour of my mother’s bedroom walls.

The sun is hot and white and the roots of trees

Creak beneath the earth,

Thick with yesterdays.

First, breaking and bruising and beaten

And then:

A grove of shady trees

Dripping with rain.

A place where the hardness of a self

Melts into outstretched arms

And everything you hear is soft to the touch.

Inside little homes, in front of little fires

People fall asleep inside of themselves.

First, hunger and heartache and hope

And then:

A billion trillion stars

A mountain ringed in gold and midnight birds

Flocking and flowering the sky.

White sheets and pruny skin,

Dreams that are always sound.

Even on my worst days

I am moving towards it

Full of breath and arms outstretched

My eyes are dry and the sun is shining

And tomorrow is waving me home.