I know - now - the winters of your soul
how long, how cold
how your dog still barks plaintively
     for your return

Yet still you kept a pitcher at the gate to slake the thirst of travellers 
Your nightwatchman still tends his flame
The hearth lit
The table decked  
     for my return

And now at last
    - the all but very last -  
I have the measure of your pedestal
imprisoned there on high
any move would break you

But serendipity has granted me the key
I know the craft, I have the tools, I will not rest
until I have you.

Come gentle soul, come fiery soul, come soul of alabaster and of platinum
    It’s time.  
        Let’s sit.
You have this table so very richly laid
in welcome