Returning

Returning

Surrounded by succulent sweet crab apple blossoms

dripping in the wind, the ground a pink carpet, creeping flocks,  

red yellow tulips alive and dead, deep purple iris,

a wicker chaise lounge cushioned  comfort,

 

filled with memories,  fields of wheat undulating,

unfamiliar beauty, wildflowers,

climbing  above constant change.

 

The Bay calls me, the heat,

invites perhaps demands,   jump,

 

like cool mountain streams at the end or middle

of those days welcomed toes and feet

filled with  bygone knowledge,

Roman,  medieval,  visible ruins.

 

I walk now on land,  remembering, that

where  I walk…”Indian children used to play…”

called to be aware to notice, history here.

 

 “ Jesus carried his burdens,”  he said

she replied “  I am not Jesus, and he was not sixty.” 

 

Yesterday, after the vegetable beds, were mulched, 

and seeds were planted,  the labyrinth was mowed and

dainty blues forget me nots were placed in vases, 

I watched rain fall, glee filled,

 

holding knowledge of thunderstorms,

in the valley, on distant mountain ranges, 

rain covers over packs,  swelling stick clicks on earth,

petitioning for five  more kilometres of grace.

 

You wave as you go by,  “ welcome home,’ 

familiar comfort on your face.

 

I met him, for the first time at the airport,

heading to St.  Jean,  three meetings later, he fell

into my arms,  a mountain climbed, descent accomplished,

we lost each other on day five.

 

She gave me my wedding album, forty three years ago,

I was nineteen,    so young and wise,  

now changed.

 

Forty countries more or less 

                            gifted me

with wisdom

                  from their citizens.

 

my pack sits empty on the floor,  

not put away,

not yet. 

 

 

  • gloria kropf nafziger