Ode to Atangard

In heavenly hefts
you carry forth; intoxicating
like a star, who guides strangers into the sky
to become part of a constellation.

When I return, broken hearted,
or covered in the dust of solitude
my heart races, as if
anything less than a million hugs
would greet and feed me soup.

In drawing near to every detail
my eyes are met with life,
like blades of grass in the desert
hinting at a nearby spring—
where windows carved in wall are made
or gardens grown by liquor stores
and splinters in the hardwood floor
—contain the tiny stories
of a wild project aging like fine wine.

My nose recalls a poem
walking down the hallway,
fresh rosemary and cheese
adding adjectives to aroma,
as I am taken by a nostalgia unfit
for such small hands.

Your modalities (wise and true)
and je ne sais quoi,
shake out individuals,
and form them into the next generation,
who will one day leave,
and one day return,
to find a piece of their
hearts stitched in a community
that dazzles and guides so many home.

Dalton Jones

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