Coming Home

Memory is never as sweet as
A first time.
The second bite
Doesn’t tingle with the same newness
As the first trepidation
Of closing lips over spoon
Or tentatively picking
At the first line of a novel,
Word by word
Like marbles from a dish.

Age dims youthful enthusiasm.
Dull shadows linger in
Corners of chapters where
Starlight and moonshine beamed.
Metaphors that tasted of gold
Tarnish to copper on the tongue.
Plot, a winding snake, is
Inexplicably a predictable pattern
Of endless scales, row on row.

But finishing a beloved book
Is stepping across a threshold
From winter’s chill
Into fire-lit warmth
And coming
Home.