How to Go and Come Back

Insulation bagged,

tossed up and out

of the house forever,

the biting filaments,

crackling along the seams,

my neck,

the collar,

my arms,

the sleeves,

my head,

the hair.


So then,

to the woods,

with one of the dogs,

the one

who knows how to go and come back.


At our tree,

I surrendered,

down and into,

the leaf-mantled ground,

shedding the shards of glass,

that once held the floorboards,

tight and breathless.


The insulation gone,

my body,

the house.


As we walked back,

a moment,

grabbed by high light,

a white pine in afternoon amber,

and I cried,

as I sank down once more,

into the forgiving earth,

this place my home,

this world I have come to know,

with my bones and blood,

a moment to know,

that I have come here,

from a place deep and far away,

to feel crackling shards along the seams,

and then 

to surrender them,

to this world,

I have come to know,

with my bones

and blood.



to go home,

with the dog,

who knows how to go,

and come back.

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