The sun is a lonely yellow weaving through the tall grass
It reaches a tired house with yawning windows
They are so obliged to say “come in, come in”

We came with a promise and youthful dreams
and with foothills all around, disarming the city commotion
we saw less, heard less, from our friends

Around back our house some Indian boy centuries ago
along the red rock trails where I often get away
carved hope into the mountain

Everyday I am more and more like this mountain,
Less and less like the boy -
Her switch knife looks paring at my skin with expectations
Her mind, her body, her voice - they all expect

The oak swirls in the cellar door catching my eye
There is a story if you look closely of how it was brought down here
Cut to shape, nailed and screwed into place

I found the stump where the tree was cut for our door
I stood a top of it, pretending
my arms outstretched, life twisted, missing the rain

I eventually returned home
to serve my purpose.
Sturdy like the cellar door.
A darkness behind.

But when she returns like the moon, a clashing blue tide to lay beside me
she smoothes out the landslide around my heart -
reaching my tired body, the yawning windows of my eyes
they are obliged to say “come in, come in”.

05/12/2005

Author's Note:

Posted on 05/12/2005
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