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Blown Home

Not finally brought home to God
by those mortals who know
how it all is and organize that
around the edges of words
that make up the towns
and train schedules
of understanding’s itinerary, nor even
by the lovely vibrations that linger
after special evening concerts
of happy angels on tour
through form. Instead
brought home by the wind
coming from way out there,
unknown and holy, beyond the sea cliffs
of solitude, the same wind
that since the beginning of longing
has been embraced to the core
by those who have flung their hearts
past the promontory of certainty
out into the open sea: simply to hear
a voice that meets your own
real as a spray of water
full on your face, faithful
as the golden sun
that sets or rises someplace
on earth always, always the horizon
where the One soul of us all
is waveless and deep,
speaking of love night and day.

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