Going Home

I remember the rosebud stories coming into view
when the mists cleared; the falling away of wings
(this, they called snows);

the cabbages and kings; the children's garden
and the feelings of these things first learned
and penny saved is a penny earned and

pennies themselves, the copper glow when they
were new seeming to me like small suns in
my shoes; the penny loafer mornings and

the bus ride when you are too small to ring 
the bell to get off.
then you do not know that the frost in the air

signals anything but Christmas weather
and are simply glad when parties are at school
before the holidays because it means

closer to home and closer to home is
always better than anything.
now you feel the same in the waning days:

the wish for home is best; the stars gathering in
the West and twilight itself seems like a dream
that folded into the long ago,

the roses blowing on the evening wind;
their scents the nearest to what you would say
if you could find the way.

and this is all I know
what I knew then, and rest from distress from
the long unwinding of the road back;

the red and gold swept from the Falls,
the appled journeys and the turning
into the old lanes welcoming you again

and this is best and most beautiful of all.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2016