“…call for what left
to come back,

and for the found,
to never leave.”

~ Mai Der Vang

Evenings on the deck, what should be
the simple pleasure of air

cooling as the sun goes down; silky
plumes of white pods dangling

at the ends of trees, the compact
emerald buds of fruit already there

as if they never left, under leafy
umbrellas of fig… Everything else

seems to expand, but in the milky light,
I touch a finger to my eyes— It isn’t

the smoke from a neighbor’s unseen grill
or musk from a cigar. Under a tree,

insistent trill of a bird I can’t name:
but I know how desperately we want

to be called. When I go indoors,
I’ll try to carry my spirit with me.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.