Returning Home

The sky’s a perfect blue today—

a first layer of white crayon 

marks the thin-stretched clouds. 

The grass has never been greener

this year—its soft blades just raising 

themselves from the long wintry sleep. 

As I cycle through the park, 

parents sit where children would

join within the hour before homework

drags them home. The tired worker

on his lunch break, not too far from here, 

is catching up with his mother who 

in a distant land moans

in her familiar tongue. 

I breeze past buoyant dogs dropping 

balls at their human’s feet—within seconds 

they are chasing the same soft ball 

across the green. The mallards make a 

ruckus by the daffodils, not a crowd 

or a host yet, but soft in their 

new yellow frills—peeking above 

the coy harbinger of spring. 

I press the pedal faster

to bury my face in your soft shadow, 

inhale the familiar warmth of your hug,

only to open the heavy door

to a flat where emptiness echoes 

and your glasses—set below the open window—

cast a long singular shadow 

along the ghostly wall.