It was while I was shaving
that the mountain burst into flames.
Granite ignited by the sunrise, and
I was home again.
It was while I pulled into their gate,
with the familiar sign and dusty lane
that the fields turned green.
Grass and bush transformed by familiarity, and
I was home again.
I was while we were talking
about old times and stories
that I smiled.
Two people brought together, and
I was home again.
It was while I was driving
down the long road
and crested the hill to see the valley.
Ridges and grassscapes and horizons brought once more into focus, and
I was home again.
It was when I was walking
on paths that went where I told them to go
that the way seemed sure.
Clarity spawned from not worrying about where to put my feet, and
I was home again.
It was when I was leaving
that I knew.
I had been home again.
28 May 2011
L. Powell
At the Brandberg. At home.
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