Returning To...

Return to me my back yard cage of green
I fill the pool and drag a wicker chair
sit shoeless with my robin’s chirping preen
while concentration scribbles what is there.
Around the world and back, within my head
a broom full-swept those corners clear of dark
then down the stairs where judgment makes its bed
into today, as thought whips up a spark.
Inside my hat a honeycomb of sun
brings bright and close, last woven, ochre straws
and through a time-worn space of toppling fun
I spy, my little eye’s, unclosing doors.
Once sky lay ‘cross the floor, a rippled rag
reflecting clouds up to an ethered void,
the crissing, crossing pond waved such a flag
as mother’s words rang back, you must avoid…
Still flies wash under sun, in water’s glance
recorded for posterity, they glide
breathe in and out, no microbes stand a chance
across the rise and fall of God’s keen tide.
But I’ll return whenever heat spares time
set down a wetted course with thankful feet
skip smiling through a dreamy summer’s clime
and dance at rest to heart’s unerring beat.

Jerry Pike