Homecoming

"Welcome home," you said.
And I scratched my head,
Thinking no one is home
Until they are dead.
Shovels in hand,
We dig and damn
These holes for our bones
To shiver to sand.

I planted daisies, you know,
To just watch them grow,
Dancing like feathers
And shining like snow.
"Come over," I said,
"To my flowerbed;
What was a grave,
Now a garden, instead."

You did and you smiled,
An unwinding child,
Who remembered to try
To breathe for awhile.
And there, while you lay,
Stems in your plaits,
We sang and laughed
Our praise for the fates.

Then the sun hovered low,
And deftly sewed
Unfurling life
With threads of gold.
The nearby stream
Whispered, it seemed,
To not fall asleep,
To keep close a dream.

"Welcome home," I said,
Nesting your head
Between sturdy hands,
Forehead to forehead.
"I’d hoped, you see,
When left to be free,
That you might still make
A home in me."

———————————————————————–

Cackle, sizzle, and crackle.
These waking dreams are laser beams
Cutting the night and searing my shackles.

It’s 7:23 AM and I can’t sleep, but at least I know I’m not dead.  I would sleep, despite the seven or eight hours of ignorance as it pertains to my mortality, but, for whatever reason, sleep is impossible.  Know what else is impossible?  Life.  In the sweetest, most bittersweet, most agonizingly pretty way possible.

Either way, and without remorse: Amor fati and prow forward.

(Fante running a fly pattern down the field).