Classic Poem

To the end of the alley sloshing through new mud,
dawn rain coming down now in thin threads;
the nearer home, the more nervous I feel,
wondering if I'll recognize the old house.
My wife recalls the sound of my step,
so filled with joy she seems to be grieving.
Two years, my first time home,
face black with dust of the road.
She heats water to wash my feet,
but the wood is damp and slow to burn.
Slow to burn—what does that matter!
Happiness enough in this meeting alone.