Return to me, love. My feet are planted
deep in this country, sole to earth, rooted
in the same soil where my father’s bones sleep.
My spirit flows here, exhaled and rebreathed.
Return to me and take what is offered.
In invitation, or is it demand(?)
you want life on your terms, open-handed,
insist that you miss what you chose to leave.
Return to me, love.
More than my hope must pilot you homeward–
life keeps house and bakes bread daily, leavened
to lightness not by saudade but by yeast,
this practical, practiced magic completes
without competing, if you surrendered
(and) return(ed) to me, love.