A young country girl, with checker shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed boots.
She stands against the brick wall of the all night gas station, looking out
into the dark of the night outside the island of the station’s street lamps.
The wind blows her long, light brown hair, and she seems melancholy.
I stand at a pump, filling up my car, watching her, making up dreams.
I dream of home, a home that is actually home, and I am welcomed.
I dream of her as tough, and reliant, and brave, and so full of love.
I dream of her and I living out in the wilds, free and cooled by nature.
I dream of her and I walking with God there, and our hearts overflowing.
I long for her, in her melancholy and dislocation. Maybe she’s like me.
Maybe she’s waiting on the one who is true and righteous, maybe she’s
longing for home, a home that is truly hers, truly open like prairie sky.
I long for her, and longing for a woman is always a longing for a home.
Home has felt strange for so long, so full of sharp tongues, bitter crowns.
I hope we both find home, and that her heart over flows with love tonight.