The Long Road Home

the ice in the air today

feels like relief

a rare december

when the bite of the

air on my face

feels like hope

and the crunch of the grass

is the rhythm

of my march towards you

and all my poems feel half finished

now

and the days are dark right now,

my love

but the in your bones cold

and the frost on the green

means the minutes

count down

again

and the strange wet warmth

of november is no more

and time still ticks slowly, my love

but the ice on the lake

means it is slowly

towards

us.

this.

so this shift, this gift

comes to warm us this first frost

The spindled webs of frozen –

Once cold an ominous

Glisten in the evening sun

Like hope renewed.

More behind than

In front.

The wait turning inwards

As we trudge through a laden land

Boots heavy and treads

Embedded thinks

Traces of us

Once directionless.

Lost

Headed Home.

Mittened hands warm

And waiting to be touched.

The I do of our future

Embalmed in the

Soft winter wind

Of lives half lived.

And waiting to

Start.

Anew.