The Return

The city awaits

Like a held breath and butterflies.

A longing of which

The anticipation is half the pleasure.

Familiar territory made strange by absence,

Laden with memory,

Exotic with change.

I will come again to your streets

Much-paced,

Long-lingered,

Where I will be free once more

To lay bare the secrets you once exhaled,

Whispered to a younger soul

Much lighter than mine.

My feet are no strangers to your streets,

Nor my eyes to your sight.

But who it was that took them there is a mystery

That I alone cannot fathom.

Change, when it is not height,

Can only be measured

By omniscience and eternity.

And so it is that I come;

An estranged wife,

A tourist in my own hometown,

A vagabond who dropped something

And came back to search.

There are glimpses of me

But only as I see her:

T-shirt in winter

And him:

Hairwaxed swagger

And them:

Wizened hands sticky,

Still fishing, still selling,

Unchanging.

Change, when it is not height,

Can only be measured

In light of the

Unchanging – not because it is simple,

But already taller than height,

Wider than width,

Deeper than depth –

Perfection.

And so I leave those streets behind.

There where the unknown meets the unseen,

The is meets what has been,

And what will be, will be…

I Am.

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Filed under beauty, change, France/French, home, poetry, random, story, travel

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