Now don’t read me wrong.
For Mnemosyne’s gift I will
make grateful poems, always.
With that, here’s to these old songs
of wet mud and nail. Sunlight
through clear stone, ray’s
castings reverently traced and copied.
Sharpened bone’s patient etch
over and over into hard stone.
Coal and root crushed and laid
on wood, skin and walls throughout 
this long drive of language. 
The hunt to fill our desire that
we remember ourselves with tools.
However, there is an older script.
Heat wrinkles twist the sky, dance
in air then are erased and left.
Lost in the cracked jaws of the past.
I saw that first calligraphy above
slow swirls of smooth lava. Again
here rising from hard clay, another.
Now it’s too hot to split wood.
Trilliums bow their heavy seed
heads in prayer. I see that clean
familiar writing through a shimmer.
My old dear friend shifts, lifts
turns and points straight at me.
Smile intact singing his new name.
I know that finally – yes – this is home.