Coming Home

And ‘The End’ will be
the last thing you imagine.
For me, a long golden hour
and tranquil sea
flowing forever
out of my evening
spring dream.

My ascending
a full circle
much as Dickinson dreamt
because she could not stop.

The return to an embedded
childhood moment,
place and familiar faces
still somehow alive
and unchanged.
We remember one another
before I turn to
the horizon and calm sea

Well, something like this,
as certain as the
4 a.m. robin
singing sweetly alone,
unseen beyond
my open window
in the dark predawn
of returning self.

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