My soul has returned
to her place of rest,
to the mother nest
where the waves roll
like blue songs
swept up in spring and light,
the wind a day made long
like the sweet locks of my darling’s hair.
And to be home
like a priest in prayer,
like a nun beside a sick child,
is where I belong
if I see the world through God’s eyes.
For all these soft skies,
all these birds gone wild,
they are old in that they are young, like
tasting the first song that blessed my tongue.
So, here I am again
repeating the voice of my heart.
Come closer, my friend.
For I am made of love.
I am made of art.