Poem July 12, 1969 Issue

ALWAYS HOME

Jane R. Harwood

"When are you coming home?" you ask.
"Three thirty," I reply.

Driving toward the city now,
home-thoughts, leaf-bright, drift in.
Serene, I hear Love's voice,
mother-gentle, firm, persuade:
Sing! Obedient, I run over
hymns of home I know and love—
that same home the Master knew, loved,
made plain, yes, daily proved to be
man's only real resting place,
with none ever left outside,
no, nor ever drawn away
from this—Love's harmony within,
Love's peace with me as I move
along, past country greens,
across long unused tracks.

And now in town through dark garage,
here too, the joys of home shine,
lead me down to waking streets
where, eager, I look for, find
more warm welcome home signs
all the way to the office door.
Opening, I see the light
sun-flowering my desk. Suddenly,
I know, no matter where one goes:
into office stillness,
back down to city noise,
out toward the river,
where Love is (everywhere!),
there is Love's idea
communicating home!

Your greeting: "So glad you're home again!"
Grateful answer: "Never really away!"

Jane R. Harwood

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