RETURNING HOME
 

I wonder sometimes 

that such a one should enter my life,

when I, unprepared, unformed,

am moving forward into living it.

That I should be asked to create for you

space, and life, and movement

when only now I claim those for myself.

Why, at such a time,

with so many goals and thoughts,

desires unspoken in the heart,

you should come like the wind,

from unknown places
 

As we circle each other

in uncertain longing for truths we have not yet touched

briefly, fleetingly, through our dreams

the Universe lays herself at our feet.

and I am struck, always and forever,

by her timing and space.

Intersecting in this moment, at this place

are answers to questions, neither you nor I

have dared to dream, though they have driven me

across landscapes and into corners

from which the only way out

was through the mess and pain and loneliness

into the uncertain, flickering light beyond.

I have risked much to be here, beloved of my soul,

spark of Fire, and Truth, and Wisdom.

And yet, even now I hesitate.

For when I move, you disappear.

Into the mists of longing and regret,

torn free from moorings, so delicate,

that too sudden a movement

startles you to flight, scenting danger in the wind.

You are gone, and silence fills the space

and time where once you were.

I desire, though my yearning has no shape or name

in the darkness of this solitary space.

Perhaps it is that longing that you fear

as it speaks to the yearnings of your own.
We are yet afraid to dance with life,

bound to the shadows, observers.

But life has found us, there in the shadows

of your longing, and of mine.

She is calling us to freedom

and the light of the Universe,

dancing patterns invisible to the human eye.

Hidden from the weakness of our sapien perceptions,

it is truly only with the heart that we can see.

Ah, beloved, what is it that we fear?

That the power will be too strong?

That we, consumed by life set free,

will burn to ashes, and pass, once more invisible,

into the realms of myth and mystery?

Though your human memory may yet long for certainty

there are, in the end, only the stories to guide us.

For Mystery was my mother, Myth raised me. 

And we are always and forever, returning home.


 

Fiona Mackintosh (© 2002, 2018)

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