So This Is Paradise After All Poem by Smoky Hoss

There are some things
that stick with a man
right to the finish.
Like the smell of fresh cut hay,
as intimate as the first time
you felt a woman's breast;
both a sense
that somehow, through it all,
the world is after all
a very good place.
Like sitting in the quiet of
late night's purity
under the darkness above the world
broken and scattered by the light
of stars so far away
even dreams cannot reach them, but they
so gracefully and faithfully
come to us.
Like leaning against
the garage door sill
facing West at dusk
saying goodnight to the sun
as it waves in shadows
through the Maple branches;
and the breeze brings
memories unnameable
as a gift to your soul;
and you have no gift of your own to return
except the tear
on your cheek
that the breeze seems so content
to accept,
and carry with it forever.
Like the feeling,
of which you have no idea
from where it originates,
that all of life's journey
is a longing, a searching, a finding
of the place
we all are most homesick for
yet cannot recall ever being from,
a place where the child
of our heart never left,
and still stands watching,
awaiting our inevitable return.