old friend, old friend.

back here in the middle
of the night searching
for my wayward voice, where have I been.
hid down slim in the crevaces, listening
for some old train whistle wisdom to call me home.

my new home, city view
down the street.
crickets and quiet and my girls
asleep, stacked in bunkbeds in the next room.
stuffed animals and all the blankets they need
dragged from two houses
here
into this one.
Home.

Home.

I don't know.

flowers blooming beautiful
all around my yard in yellow deception.
spring vision.
still,i can't see.
they have no scent and their beauty
comes and goes and leaves those wilted miracles
rotten in the grass.

And I don't know.

Why we think
one new spring is as ever as fresh as the last,
the circle we follow looking for what wasn't.
bright. our memory,
reworked colors we retouch.

outside, the backyard now
smoke my smokes between the cement and the midnight sky.
let the taste go stale in my mouth and wonder
to the constellations
where i went.

that old bathroom window and
the street lights long and yellow across the trees.
shadows on the lawn.

and i don't know.

my words and the April daffodils all wilted down together.