Coming
Home
Disheveled, tattered, worn, and
seared by flame,
Seeking the surface, chilled, all
passion spent,
I struggle from the trough; my
limbs are lame
from climbing; my eyes dazzled, shoulders bent.
Pausing to search the dark, the
silent road--
Past hope, I find I do not stand
alone!
Your hand, your weary hand,
extended yet,
No phantom, but your faithful flesh
and bone.
So did Odysseus come at last to
land,
Circe's enchantment gone;
His company all dead, his ship
unmanned;
In rags he came, one longing
unabated.
Silent, remote, and yet with
steadfast hand,
Weaving once more, alone Penelope
waited.
JMC
2/14/94
© Jean M. Campbell 1994