Coming Home

When you left the house this morning,

I was sitting in my chair,

huddled over coffee and uttering a prayer

that you would come home safely

to sit down in your place,

a smile for me a gleaming

through the coal dust on your face.

You'd reach with blackened hands

like so many times before

to take my own within them

as we sat there on the porch,

and you'd tell me how you love me

and the way you'd thought all day

of the dinner I'd have waiting

and of how I'd always say,

"John, I love you, mister!

You've come home to me again,

and I've waited in my breathing

so I can breathe again.

Now go and wash that dirt off,

and, mind, don't track the floor.

I've dinner warm awaiting.

Set your bucket by the door."

Then I'd heave my old worn body

from the seat where every day

I sit and watch the dirt road

for the cloud that comes this way

when your truck pulls up the holler,

and I watch you as you come

and your eyes light up like diamonds

at the love that pulls you home.

They say you've gone away now,

but I sit here by the door

and watch for clouds of glory

to bring you like before.

Dedicated to all of the grieving families who lost loved ones in the Montcoal mining disaster on April 5, 2010. May God bless and keep and comfort them.