Going Home

It was the middle of the day.

Early September. Light skirting

out from under the leaves. I was

taking the compost to the edge of

the yard when I saw you pinching a

pot on the old bench near the bird

bath we'd lugged from Albany. Mira

was lying in the grass, sun closing her

eyes. Something in the quiet light

made me realize that we were now

in this moment all we'd hoped for.

I put the can down and sat next to

you. Watched your hands shape

the clay. I wanted to run my fingers

through your hair. A small cloud

bowed and the sun warmed my

hand on your knee.