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; Troy's walls ungated,

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.






Jean M. Campbell 1994