Should it return, I will be there by the sill
peering through drawn curtains, letting
the wind play with the chimes firmly hung
on its path. I need to be warned before I
open the door on its now rusty hinges; I
must appear unexpectant, must not look
surprised nor fazed, but gently regal even
as I welcome it back: You are home, love,
and your perch is still green like you never
left it. If you must go again, pray leave
the hinges swinging, you won’t take long,
would you? I could plan on it. But, will you?

— Albert B. Casuga
11-10-11