Coming home to you is like drinking
cool sips from a mountain spring
after trekking in the desert.
Your love saturates me,
pouring forth through the open door
and intensified through the dilated pupils
of our interlocked gaze as we
encounter one another anew.
This love permeates me,
overflowing the walls of our small home
with a tidal swell of intimacy
palpable in the beating of my heart
and the tears on your cheeks.
I am home.
You welcome me back
like a falconer
patiently awaiting my cyclical return
while accepting the possibility of loss
through the inherent risk of taking flight.
You are learning how to love so fiercely
that you hold with an open hand
that which you love most dearly.
You receive my story
like an expectant father,
certain that in the deliverance
of the tender promise on my lips
you will be forever changed,
and yet succumbing to that revelation willingly
as one crosses any threshold they are ready for.
To return to a love like this
is as rare in these times
as it is needed.
For this embrace invites the leaving necessary
to find oneself again and again
and to know that the living into can be done
with patience and grace,
just as the departure and return.
From the safe harbor of our love
it is safe enough to set sail
which in turn makes
the journey itself
that much more
meaningful.