A Poem

Every drive is longing.

Red, white, yellow, green.

A photograph of a wall

and I feel homesick.

There is beauty and love and joy in this place

and I try to hold on, but

these cupboards have no feeling,

the garage has no soul.

Words are bubbling out of me,

longings met and yet, not.

All I want is a pleasant walk,

some windows without curtains,

wood with stories to tell.

Tomorrow and yesterday have a lot to carry.

Today is often a day gone by.

I know, this too shall pass.

And I haven’t written a poem since high school.