Such a comfort there is
in knowing that home still exists.
Where the attic is filled with my toys
and the aspen trees are inscribed with
the name of my first love, encircled in a heart.
The signature is still white but magnified
by the years since my innocence.
Where the earth still carries a slight indent
on the spot where I dug for buried treasure.
All I found were bits of old china, blue,
plastic shards and a little, white stone.
To me it seemed like time well spent.
Where the wood on the window sill
is polished dark and smooth. I sat there
for hours and stared at the moon,
tracing with my finger the pattern of stars
thinking of poetry, cute boys
and visits from Mars.
Where the rock pile remains
in the heat of the sun,
rose quartz, mica, granite and lime.
An amateur geologist once perched on top
searching for a precious find.
Where the grove of birch trees
are marked by my cat
two pairs of four slashes, side by side
The deeply carved warning,
his totem sign.
Where the old gourd still swings on its rusty wire
dappled by leave-filtered sun
A mother and daughter once sat below,
two birders in the know,
waiting for the wren to return.
She always comes home.
