Gentle Homecoming

The way I would take

if only I could

winds between the thorny greenbriar

and the soft-topped Turk’s Cap. I would be

sensitive to all interweaving leaves.

The way I would take

if only I could

weaves between rows of orderly Privet

and the hedgewitch chaos of Yaupon leaves.

My feet would follow the meandering creek.

The way I would take

if only I allowed my heart to lead

meanders among the gentle hammers of the sun

and the moon’s ivory-tipped nails. I would stay

attuned to rhizome, root and rhythm.

The way I would fashion

if clear vision were granted

would attune my animal antennae to both roads

where cars roar and squeal

and deer trails rattled over by cicadas.

O rattle me a riddle, primal poets

perched in canopy and inkblack bark.

Whose bones occupy the horned owl’s pellets?

Where will the wind rest her well-travelled head?

And who combs her long, silver hair?

The way I would comb and travel

along the root-ribbed edge of this dappled creek

would attune my time-riddled heart

to gentle homecoming. Now bless these human bones

at home, here, between the feathers and the fur.