Pillows, Tea-towels, a Chipped Vase, a Colander
This rental house–mismatched stone, stucco, and siding
such a curious shade of green I imagine
someone mixing together leftovers from rusty tins.
A creased map lies open beside me on the passenger seat.
Weeds already thick around the peonies,
trees relinquish their blossoms, this first visit,
first spring since you left home.
Your uncombed hair darkened now to the same shade
as my own, grey school trousers and checkered
cowboy shirt threadbare, black leather
graduation shoes scuffed beyond polishing.
Shoulders stooped slightly from playing guitar
or working in the factory, your hazel eyes betray nothing
about this independence craved so fiercely.
You left home the day after high school ended.
Cutting across the lawn, still soggy as sponge cake, I resist
an urge to smooth your hair, take you by the arm,
take you back for just a little longer,
say I’m not quite finished with you.
I joke about the unwieldy care-package I’m lugging,
neighborhood kids, their careless laughter as they ride by.
* * *
Leanne Boschman‘s poems have been published in several Canadian journals. Her collection of poems Precipitous Signs: A Rain Journal was published by Leaf Press in 2009.