Coming Home

Sometime between cutting up the lettuce and

getting it into the bowl the sound of traffic dissolves.

I waken far to the north, in some deep remoteness.

The moon is rising and

every thing that urges me is far away

across snowfields and miles of

evergreen spires.

I feel myself again, my hands above the cutting board, the knife

hardly relevant, my mind seeing that one carrot.

What could I do from this place? What universe might I invent?

What whales and rocks and stars put in their firmaments?

To feel the universe within, the rivers of blood, the earth of

flesh over rocks of bone, is to come home

and be everywhere

at peace.

Tom deMers

March 2007