Field Of Return Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

She moves through corridors of becoming,
not as a finished shape
but as a question
held in motion,
a door left open
in a house with no center.

There is a quiet gravity in her searching,
a life not performed
but listened into existence,
moment by moment,
as if truth were something breathed
and sometimes caught
halfway in the throat.

She once believed wholeness meant stillness,
an unbroken surface,
a flawless alignment of thought and spirit,
like glass
unmarked by weather.

Time has been undoing that illusion,
not cleanly
but with a patient abrasion,
like dawn loosening the edge of night
or water worrying stone
long after the hand has left it.

Now she learns another kind of order,
one that does not shatter under weight,
one that does not confuse trembling with failure
nor fatigue with exile,
though some days
it still feels like exile.

Her faith is not a posture she holds
but a field she returns to,
again and again,
like water finding the shape of its basin
without asking permission.

There are days when clarity gathers
like sunlight on a floor
no one has swept,
and days when it scatters
into corners she cannot reach.

Still, she remains
within the same unfolding,
not reduced by variation,
not named by it,
though she has tried,
more than once,
to give herself a final name.

She is no longer a monument to certainty
but a passage of return,
a rhythm of falling into grace
and rising
without spectacle,
without witness.

What she calls the divine
does not arrive.
It remains,
in the small refusal to close,
in the breath that stutters
and continues.

And she understands now
in quieter language:

identity is not a locked door
but a slow illumination.

So she continues,
not as one who has arrived
but as one being gathered,
not upward,
not elsewhere,
but here,
in the unfinished shape
of her own returning.