Home

All of life is a coming home.
Salesmen, secretaries, coal miners, beekeepers, sword swallowers--
all of us.
All the restless hearts of the world...
all trying to find a way home.
It's hard to describe what I felt like then.
Picture yourself walking for days in a driving snow.
You don't even know you're walking in circles--
the heaviness of your legs in the drifts;
your shouts disappearing into the wind.
How small you can feel.
How far away home can be.
Home.
The dictionary defines it as both a place of origin...
and a goal or destination.
And the storm?
The storm was all in my mind.
Or, as the poet Dante put it...
"ln the middle of the journey of my life I found myself in a dark wood...for I had lost the right path."

No... i am not home sick yet. It's just a poem.