The gate— green and rusting in patches;
gravel along the walk. The heads of orchids
nodding over the neighbor’s fence. Not far
from there, the road that descends into the park.
Memory from childhood of looming pines,
scuffle of loose stones underfoot; fretwork
of darkening blue, burst corollas of Queen
Anne’s Lace. Returning in the evening,
listen closely, listen closely—
in the wood the sparrow calls, and you stop
what you are doing; and you turn your head
toward the mountains though there’s nothing
in the window but the hoarfrost and the moon.

Luisa A. Igloria
11 02 2011

In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.

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