Where I Don't Live
       

Tiny squares, triangles and hexagons
arranged in a window pane, illuminated
by the sun, a colorful flower pattern—
daisies, maybe lilies, maybe both.
The house is chocolate brown. It's not
the window where I watched lightning split a tree
or where a stranger watched me sleep.
Children crawl up the stairs, rainbow colors
highlight their bouncing hair,
memories they'll share with their children.
Outside, autumn leaves scattered at my feet,
as I push the stroller, turn to stone.
I stumble among their teetering under my weight.
The stroller wobbles left and right and back
until we turn towards home, his eyes still closed,
face relaxed so the lips are slightly parted,
leaves again falling. I walk slow.
The ground is smooth as I cross the bridge
stopping to listen for the water's surface, the way
it pushes around the rocks, always moving toward
something, but also moving away from where it's been.

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Copyright © 2018 Cheryl Wilder All rights reserved
from What Binds Us
FinishingLine Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission