I wait, hushed
While my feet wiggle
In the eastern soil.

No, it’s not the moors.

But the grass is sweet,
And the air is bursting
With an unusually early Spring;
The daffodils peek,
The birds cautiously sing,
And the bees, woken
From their winter lull,
Premature,
Drunk-buzz by
Looking for that first nectar.

I don’t feel shipwrecked here,
Though I am saved every day,
As if I might tumble,
Head long,
Off some unbidden cliff;
Surrounded by the safety of love
Everywhere.

It’s not a replacement
For the dreams
In which I’d invested
My every tomorrow,
Which were somehow reclaimed
By the sturdiest arms
I’ve ever known.

A new hope is born,
Shines through
The stained glass window
Of our history’d home,
Tasting sweet as dew
On every summoned sunrise.

03/20/2012

Posted on 03/20/2012
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie