COMING TOWARD HOME
I want to love things all by myself,
not looking sidelong to see
if others are loving them, too:
the sky like old blue glass held in by a tracery of trees,
the great horned owl’s cynical question–
the falling cold stars of snow.
One night I snowshoed in the woods alone,
the full moon lamplight gleaming
through the lace of soft snow clouds.
Coming toward home I saw in the frame of an uncurtained window
the painting of a summer orchard
above my piano against the green wall,
my husband moving across the kitchen with his teacup.
I thought I would break for joy.
This is an old one. It was published in Calyx, in September, 2000