I looked long,
long, and longer over the broad face
of the earth for signs.
Of joy, maybe, joy of the kind that doesn’t
let its lips close into a hard line
at the bare touch of a chill breeze.
My brothers are at home, in the warmth
of dogs and dinner and flame;
my brothers recline with their wives
in the warmth of home.
I begged the roadside for a touch, stumbling
along the palm of a cold hand.
And, in response, the rocks and the sand started
singing, started a song
strange, one I’d known all along, though my heavy heart
had hung all melodies as treason
and quelled the dangerous clamor of harmony’s mouth.
I looked long, lover,
bearing arms against the world’s broad face,
evading my face in its brimming eyes,
my dark face with its two snuffed flames.
And all along the very dust and the very ground
were weeping, waiting with me, here,
waiting for you, here,
burning and brightening the sky,
beckoning us home with your red
and yellow hands,
beckoning us home.