The nomad I have become or the nomad I always was and the nomad stewing within. Or the nomad I think I am or others think I am. The question: does it matter? Nomad challenges home, if home is a physical place, not if home is closer than any place. What if coming home requires no movement? In fact, quite the contrary. Then I may well be nomad and never have left home. Yes, in thought. In this realm I have left everything, returned, burned, created and recreated hell and heaven. I seldom mature in thought.

I doubt home is knowledge acquired. I want to say, it is seeing what was always here. I may nomad the world and never find home if I look outside, that is clear. My gaze in turn to inhale the outer world is to channel all present. Present here, present now, present gift. And I the recipient.

Now I must go. Not to a some where or a some one. Perhaps not even.  Only a single teardrop forming at the rim of my lid. A provisional taste of salt; saturated emotion, light rap in my heaving chest. You guard, shouldering the incessant flow of thought, let me go. Release me. Spill me – drop – into open sea, so I may be free. Some flesh is retained by your grip

, thus I step out of flesh, and cradle heart in loyal devotion, setting it down beside flesh on cold stone. I break with shell and find nestled tight acquired ideas and concepts of who I am. Pieces plucked from a blooming meadow in early spring, pieces on a board taking a bow, now stepping off stage – fall. And with it light and wind and sound as I too step, three step into darkness. And walk on. No glimpse of time behind or ahead – no time. Just space untouched and bare, no carry or call or ink dipped tiny feet on blank paper, no name or number, no I. Just. A return to home. The revered eternal.