My street name tastes like honeysuckle
on the tip of my tongue.
I can see the county road bend through the woods—to the gravel driveway.
It's Autumn here, so I know the nettle grows there—
between the cracks in the brickwork.
I can picture the daschund lounging in the armchair;
If I came home today, I wonder if it'd think a year was a week.
It's Winter here, so I know the door is snowed in there,
and icicles hang from the rain gutters.
I can hear pancakes flipping in the pan,
and feel the cool pillow beneath my head.
It's Spring here, so I know the confederate roses bloom there,
and the terrier is swimming in the pond.
I can see the beat up truck collecting pollen in the backyard,
and the swimming pool filmed over with algae.
It's Summer here, so I know the days are longer there,
and the birds are nudging their fledglings—out of the nest.
