We drive through neighborhoods to look
at houses leafed in dusk-light, noting which
have corbeled windows and which
have shutters turning to the river,
where the sky has tinted the waters mauve
and wading birds touch the current
lighter than a skimming lure.
Is there a walk edged with green,
leading to a door of beveled glass?
Is there a span of yard
where old leaves on the evening
primroses graze the fluttery
new leaves on the witch hazel?
No one lists these other views:
the curl of chrome around
the refrigerator handle, the tiny
speckled orbs of orange scattered
across kitchen tile. I look
for your image reflected from
the shiny green side of a toaster,
listen for the future echo of footsteps
dancing up from the wooden floor.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.