It’s Always About the Return / wendy fulton steginsky

with thanks to Seamus Heaney

The blush of hibiscus bushes lightens
road’s edge, spreads over the isle’s
south shore.

The sea’s sucked out today—
the reefs exposed as altar stones.

I came home to inhale the roots
of altar stones I store in my heart,
to know again the spawning truth
the sea murmurs.

I came home to witness the land awaken
from a sudden downpour, to watch
how oleanders shrug, buttery alamandas

cup each raindrop, frangipani stiffen
then reopen in stillness as brief and full
as an evening shadow.

These rhythms, familiar as the deep
soil they grow in, reassure, call
something untouched in me to free
itself below the sun.

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