When he comes home

The sound of dry leaves blowing in light wind 
tricked me into thinking he was coming up behind me

even though I knew 

he was still 

taking steps

across ancient terrain, 

across the shield.

His horse, painted belly, spots of white
nuzzling his head in my palms every time he saw me 

and me, 

always thanking him

                                 thank you thank you thank you 

for brining my love 

safely home.

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