Homecoming

 

How many times

must I hear Buddha say,

"breathe in, breathe out,"

before I can do it myself?
I got tired of being spiritual,

so I came home,

built a fire, made coffee,

took out my mother's

bone China cup,

and ran my fingers

over the crazing,
the lace of imperfections
in all that once was white.
My feet are on the floor,
the world feels brown and blue.
I came home to hug you.

Aren’t we all full of cracks

and dark patches,

millions of moist lips

on the verge of a single kiss?
I got tired of being spiritual.

Now I’m home,
just being.

Photo, my kitchen window