Come home. Come now. Come home to me.
There was a life of our own; overthrown, don’t you see.
In shadows, memories, and stories untold,
Pieces lay bound in these hearts by blindfold.
Come to me now, even come to me, late.
I’ve grown old and I’ve bent all the way to forsake.
I can’t give you still what was lost in the wake.
Such grieving pulled down in some eternal thieve’s take.
I could bring what I own and set table for you.
It is humble and bare, yet my soul is there too.
Come to sit with me, dears, I have so much to tell.
My heart lives here with you, even after all fell.
©2012 Linda Willows