Now You’re Home

Now you’re home, but the changes
have you scared: the trees sprouted
in the sitting room, the hunters’ horns
and rolling fields of winter grain,
the still pond frozen at the edge,
axes ringing down the hall.

I should apologize, I know.
I see you waiting for some word,
a reason, perhaps, the freezer is warm
and full of books, the oven a home
for muddy shoes. Don’t worry.
I can explain it all.

You were away so long: an hour,
maybe more. I remember what you said:
I am leaving now. You even wore a coat.
And then the door, irrevocable,
frightful barrier beyond my command,
your footsteps on the walk, leading away,
to the emptiest silence I have ever known.

See how old I’ve grown. And yet you are
the same, only better — a rare breeze
bearing woodsmoke and far-damp earth,
unaccountable violets, orange blossoms,
a veil of longing I can’t describe.

I feel like the last man on earth,
revived from his curse to stay alive.

From Songs and Letters, originally published November 15, 2005. Also appeared in Barnwood Magazine (2007).


Updates:
Twenty more words added to the Burns Glossary, as we venture into the S’s.

In the Forum: the rise and fall of civilizations, the whisper of cedars, unidentifiable sonic waves, and a napping uncle.