Coming Home

I buried myself in the backyard of your big yellow house
right under the swing set where, before I moved in,
you used to sit in the shade and sing to the trees,
sweet siren crooning to the wind
and taking solace in the echo.

We called the space between our houses a forest
even though it was barely a patch of trees;
the scattered foliage that separated your sphere from mine.
I emerge from the path into green splendor,
wind my way up to your backdoor,
knock on the glass but let myself in
before anyone has a chance to notice.

I used to be able to see the light of your bedroom window from mine.

In the stillness of the hot Texas nights,
dry air washing the hills in a lifeless dance,
I swear I still see a flicker-
and a flash of green live oak-
and I know your light is on
although I cannot see.

I hear your voice float to me,
lilting and dancing across the highways that lay between us-
only now, with a steady beat,
my heart keeps time.


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