I hover above garage
flying like a slow owl.
See my child-home
like I did in a dream
many years ago.
Silence stays awake in crisp
windless moonlight.
I glide over pungent backyard.
Nasturtiums and lilacs
whiff in midnight air.
Outstretched wing-arms
sweep dark corners
of family house.
I look through open windows
fly past Dad’s canyon of sadness
bitter like a bowl of unripened citrus
slow down for Mom’s wink
when he reaches for
his healing accordion
I draw solace from their nearness—
his sorrow, her joy
nudging me to believe
in countless delicate
unknowable things
that guided me and still inspire.
Sometimes a desire
to be lost above wooden roof
then to slip inside
comes over me like a vapor
I feel an inescapable pull
to this place to which
I belong entirely.
