04/09/2013 11:32 am ET Updated Jun 09, 2013

Going Home

For all the dreams we dream and things we work toward, we sometimes stumble into a moment when what waits inside our dream somehow comes true. This poem speaks to such a moment.

Going Home

It was the middle of the day.
Early September. Light skirting
out from under the leaves. I was
taking the compost to the edge of
the yard when I saw you pinching a
pot on the old bench near the bird
bath we'd lugged from Albany. Mira
was lying in the grass, sun closing her
eyes. Something in the quiet light
made me realize that we were now,
in this moment, all we'd hoped for.
I put the can down and sat next to
you. Watched your hands shape
the clay. I wanted to run my fingers
through your hair. A small cloud
bowed and the sun warmed my
hand on your knee.

A Question to Walk With: Tell the story of a moment when life suddenly felt complete, with nowhere to go and nothing to work toward. What led to this moment?

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