There is an invisible hand
sweeping its fingers through
the long grasses
in just the loving way
my fingers sweep through
my love’s hair at night.

The waters ripple
under the gaze
of the long-watching
mountains.

Everything has a place.

Home is real,
and never far away.

Sit, rest.
Let that which you seek
find you.

Owens River, eastern Sierra Nevada, March 31, 2018