Late afternoon in the valley, the trees
wear halos.  Then twilight steals the sun,
kitchen lights blink on like stars,
and coming home is a sigh
and the smile of someone waiting. 
Your day is told in half sentences
and nods and questions answered --
nothing new, but new enough to tell again. 
After supper, after gin rummy and pages
turning and the rhythmic click of a sweater
growing row by row, bed greets you
like a childhood friend, and sleep
keeps company with the blue black sky
and the owl's whispered flight.


From I Lost Summer Somewhere, forthcoming from Kelsey Press in 2019.
Used with the author's permission.