Like those who sail away and then come back,
we keep returning to a port we’ve never left.
A life we used to live await us there as
shores await all sailors home from sea.
So much is differently the same.
And yet what is the present but a future that the past made possible? There is no older story.
And what are we but random pilgrims stopped in progress to remember?
It now seems more like then, why care?
As long as home means where
we most belong—for just that long—we’re there.