in the darkness of an old front porch,
with the smell of wood and leaves
and the coming spring,
with the soft amber glow of a kitchen window behind me
shining safety out into the wilderness,
I think about you,
as the wind rises,
sending a silver chill down my spine.
I pull this afghan around me tight
like the memory of your arms—
or a cradle—
where everything was simple.
Before home vanished
and the wilderness