After leaving you this morning,
I look into the greening woods
thick with new growth,
and imagine you
in a house there that I wouldn’t
be returning to,
not by my not finding the way
back to you, but by you not
ever finding the way back to me.
You have told me how much
you have enjoyed the lunch
I have made, but you have
forgotten that already, and are
asking me about parts of your life
story, and I need to repeat them
over and over, your memory
slipping each time, until I exhibit
frustration and you ask me to leave.
Back in the woods, I can see
a light in the window, your head
bent, and I can feel your despair.
There is no path forward,
and there is no going backward.
The wind blows the new leaves.
They rock and sway, the way you
sometimes do, when you’re lost
amid the darkness of mind.
We try to find the seam
of joy in the moment, but we are
lost in my explaining what
you no longer understand,
yet ask me to try to find an answer
for anyway. Distance between us
becomes too far to grasp.
Although I can still see you,
what is lost is the way back home.
