The Power of Poetry

Coming Home With Open Arms

The open door stands firmly in
A lonely field of dust.
Killed by the wind, it’s long since gone
Beyond their sun and stars to somewhere else.
“ What will you see? “ I ask. “At least colors,” he says, looking at the sky, “and other places.”
“You mean you’ll go?”
“Yes,” he says, “I will.” His eyes show his care.
The dust swirls around his feet,
Even as the wind blows on.
The dust will always be a part of him,
Like the open the door to every open heart.

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