I wish someone had told me about
spring. The light still comes as
a surprise, dripping down the leaves
I do not remember ever being this green.
There are songs on the radio I should
know, that bounce against the windows;
rolled up, with behind them the road that runs,
tireless, under our wheels. I have seen these
places already. When we stop there is our old
house; spiderwebs stretched over my bed, and
a lingering sound of tiny mouse feet across
the worn floor.
There are cherries on the tree, red as the
sunset behind the hills. I tell myself they
have been waiting for me; that the birds
were kind enough to leave them untouched.
There are stars in the sky at night. But I am
still waiting for a glint of dark eyes under the
brush; for a doe to run across the dirt path in
the dying evening light, and for her to look at me,
and say Welcome home, in a scuffle of fragile
legs over white pebbles.
