we rarely return "home" to die

we rarely return home to die

tis not where we were born or live

but a different space we've moved to

like jack-rabbits digging holes in a yard

we move about and meet new friends

then die alone without a plot

often some where outside of home

gone and a smidgen of what we long

we know not what we bring in transition

but scars drag along with pain, oft times

remembrances of our hometown bouts

times of blessings and of rot

when Death arrives at its unexpected hour

we slide into it as if home is what we want

wondering, drunk, sickly, insane

away from where we fled years in our head

now heading Home where we belong

yes, heading Home where we meant to go

cry me the tears of the grieving

pouring like ice cream

melting from some Himalayan dome

i don't know that they're weeping for

but weep they do

paining

aching for some unknown home

Home

untouchable

but grasped as they grow

or flow

*What are we to do in the midst of our tangled lives?  Nothing, except to let love act.  To become its accomplice, in happiness or sorrow.  To love without hope of return.  Every pain can become a lasting joy, starting today.

-Jean Sulivan