Saturday, April 25, 2020


When you're walking
slowly along the road
all alone, and you're
not at all sure where you're going,

and over the next hill
is a quiet, still, and well-
manicured neighborhood
which you're sure you've never visited,

but the flowers in bloom on
the edges of the lawns
are the very same ones you'd expect,
this time of year, to stumble across—

the same tenacious tulips
and antiseptic hyacinths,
meek minnow schools of crocuses
and ditsy yellow daffodils—

you're tempted to think
maybe this all that is meant
by home: the sure footed stroll
of your own peculiar imagination

set on the even keel
of the tacit familiar—maybe
the pleasure of being
in agreement with your own notions

is the closest you'll come
to belonging.