When the sky chars your cracked
wooden roof, dry and parched,
and even rows of weeping willows
can’t wet your eyes enough to cry,
know that I’ll be coming home.

When my fuel spells empty
and dripping tires refuse to feed
on miles of soaking roads, the signs
with glowing arrows turn me home.

When your crinkled old dog moans
in his sleep, tail popping the porch,
thirsting for my return, I’m almost home.

When thunder churns your name, igniting
hope, lightning scorches the tender road home.

My body folds and smolders in your door.

When the wilderness wraps
our damp steps in subtle silence:
whispering hush of the wet brush,
a cherished sharing of the leaves
beneath our bare shuffling feet,
I know I am home.

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