I bet you'll miss the way
one dogwood in your front yard blooms all at once,
with boughs of white flowers bumbling like their bees.
I bet you'll miss how your house casts geometry onto the Bermuda grass.
There's a UHaul shadow messing up the pattern.
The flowers don't whisper the same things they did when I met you.
Somehow, they mean the new baby now.
Will you miss me?
I can't compete with them, but I am a part of
this suburb you will soon stop calling home.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment