by Brett Rutherford
Weary he was
from long traveling.
A backpack, overstuffed,
dropped to the floor.
As I said, "Welcome!
So many years!
Sit down for tea!"
he sat.
And tea was made,
bread torn
by two strong hands,
fruit, yogurt, nuts,
whatever in hand
that required no stove
at three in the morning.
Not much was said.
He had been somewhere
you would not want to go,
and this is where he fled.
"Go back to sleep," he said.
He lay beside me, damp
with the storm he had walked in;
he smelled of ashes, lilac,
apples, and wild cherry.
Asleep, he wept.
He was half over me,
shuddering.
I tasted tears
and the cold rain
still rilled from off
the fringe of blond hair
that covered my face.
He jolted awake.
"I dreamt," he told me,
"and in my dream
I was with you,
and weeping.
And now I wake
and find myself here!"
I traced with one hand
upon his cheek,
the salt line of tears.
His hand stopped me,
covering mine,
as each of us made sure
the other was not
some phantom.
"Oh, stay!" I cried.
"Wake not somewhere
above and beyond
this moment!"
Wordless, he came.
The door just opened.
His backpack, overstuffed,
still sat in the kitchen.
He stayed — he stays.
He is here for keeps, he says.
no matter how many
years ago he died.
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