Coming home

Christmas Volume

The upper pocket
of my jacket is open.
I carry the old pictures
above my heart.
Mother,
Father,
Brother,
Son.
You protected
and guarded me.
Your love kept me warm.
I look into my pocket
in the countryside.
I raise the pictures
towards the sky.
Gentle autumn
wind’s blowing.
The smell of ripe grass
is warming me.
There’s a handful of dirt
in my hand.
I strew it.
I’m home.
Earth is my mother.
Sky is my father.
Wind is my brother.
Rain is my son.
I’m lost in the blow
of the wind,
A bird’s carrying the news:
“Life is a circle.
Everything’s come together.
Joy of the old tree,
Glory of Man.”

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