I’ve returned to the back yard
to reintroduce myself to the sandy spurs
creeping between the cement cracks,
the ripened walnuts scattered on the lawn,
the rustle of maple leaves beneath my feet,
to swing open a door in my memory and curl
up in a chair in a room peppered with books
stacked beneath windows that let in sunlight
and shadows of tree limbs resting against
the gutters. I want to stay here and occupy
the space of honey-glazed conversations
and cooking smells and strawberry julip
juice dripping from my fingers down into
the wooden planks on the front porch.
I want to lodge in the languor of this memory
but my harried life won’t let me stay.