Blessed be the rain, for it knows how to leave.
It gathers in my hands, just enough to show it belongs there,
then slips back into the earth.
The birds have returned to the roof they left last year.
I watch them build again,
wondering why every creature knows its way home except us.
Every sunset sent me searching for you,
whom I had abandoned.
When I finally returned,
the wind still said your name.
The river carried your reflection.
Only you had learned
what I never did:
how to leave without looking back.
I saw it then,
the ring that I slipped onto your finger,
when I promised to trust you forever.
The gold had softened with the seasons.
I reached for it,
but the oak held it tighter
than my hand ever could.
So I left it there.
The wind still visits our home.
Sometimes, it arrives carrying the scent of summer
when your hand fit so easily into mine.
Sometimes, it takes it away, too.
Blessed be the ground
that never curses the lost for returning late.
It simply holds the shell
until even the sun forgets
who once called it home.
And, blessed be you,
for teaching me
that forever can be outlived.
And that we sometimes return
only to find
that our home had learnt to bloom
without us.