Spuds

a mighty gust knocks down the Door,

come wrestling feet and desperate hands,

to You,

waiting.

 

howling, crying, wooing, tearing,

the wind claims lasting ownership

to wrestling feet and desperate hands

for You,

wanting.

 

though Door has shut, cold stings remain,

reverberating on my skin,

binding me to what I’ve escaped;

but where have I just entered in

with You

                   laughing?

 

and I break;

finally,

falling like a sack of spuds

into Your arms

 

Home.

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