Walking
under tree canopy,
its leaves
as bright and robust as apples.
Rain popping
against my umbrella
like popcorn
in the pan,
and spilling
out like a child’s bubble bath.
The air
tastes as sweet as in spring,
chilled like
apple juice in the can.
Even the
long row of stately houses
nestle
together like hens in the snow.
I will be
home soon.
Home will smell
of oven breath,
of bread,
cinnamon, and pumpkin nostalgia.
Maybe there,
for awhile, I will forget.
How do I
sing of the one I have lost?
the cinder
poetry of your name
still soft
on my lips.
