While the long grain softens
in the kitchen table of round-edged
honey ash—fork-scarred,
newsprint-stamped,
marker-grazed, shin-grazing—
my childhood steals along in socks
and murmured songs.
While the long grain ripens
in the valley and the granite dome
shimmers above the orchards
and the Japanese maple sinks its root
through the bottom of the pot
and the grey-copper cat suns on the patio,
my childhood drifts with the winged seeds
and the almond blossoms.
While the long grain pixelates
in suburban shadow on the video camera,
catching rubber bounces and rainbows
over half-built houses and evening sprinklers
and strollers on the street corner,
my childhood nests in the eaves
with the mourning doves
waiting to come to me again.
