I admit it. My romantic heart is accessable by writing fingers only when on an adventure. And that adventure is often away from home. Cape Verde, Brazil, Senegal... what about my own driveway? What about the things I know?
I'm sorry green pasture. I will do my best to stop seeing, staring, and obsessing over the pasture on the other side of the fence.
A poem for my driveway:
Black, sturdy, repaved hundredfold
conversed with toes from two-year-olds
withstanding the heat of family ski trips,
sun-baked chalk games and skipping hips,
Driving lessons and stalled goodbyes,
Years alone. I turn home. we greet. I sigh.
Thank you driveway.
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