This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.
Well it turns out coming home to yourself is slow motion, not a singular happenstance. It happens in every moment we tell ourselves the truth, in every moment we honor her whispers.
It happens like a long walk around a lake.
Slowly at first, and then with purpose.
and for me, it is perpetual. ongoing. never-ending. I like it like that. š