Silver-green feathers of foxtails nodding lazily through rusted wire fences
The orange-gold chalice of a single poppy in a sea of tender grass
Meandering sidewalks, charcoal-gray ribbons of asphalt fractured by weedy cracks
Palm trees and fir trees and the spreading oak
Sleepy, small-town quiet kissed by spring and haunted by the bittersweet ghosts of Cinderella dreams
The world of my childhood seen from beneath the peach-colored brim of a canvass sun hat.
A traveler, I raced away at the speed of light, only to return to find time standing still and
Nothing much changed … except me.
Dimensions overlap, deeply familiar then with alien now. You can never go home once you’ve left.
Not really. Not all the way.
Role reversal. Until today, I was the one who left—left over and over as she stood outside the door,
Waving and smiling. It’s all right. I’ll be fine. Call me when you get home.
This gray morning she left me. Standing where she stood those many times, I tried to return the favor
As quiet men closed the doors behind her, and the plain white van pulled slowly away.
It’s all right, I told her. I’ll be fine. Call me when you get home.
