"they are, still..."

a table waits...two chairs, an old pitcher filled
with daisies and the kettle boiling while scones
bake and robins feather their nests in the
apple tree by the back gate...

she will arrive in the cloud of summer dust that
rises from the long drive leading to the farmhouse
where her memories of childhood stand sentry
like the talk stalks of sweet corn that line the
gravel lane...

she will know she is home by the slap of the
screen door, the whirr of a table fan, the feel
of warped porch steps beneath her bare feet,
the scent of her mother's perfume...her father's
voice as he rounds the barn to greet her...arms
open wide...

her mother will wait just inside the frame of
the back door...her tears too private and her
feelings too new...this daughter is not a little
girl who will rush into her arms...she trembles
with joy, and something un-named....a shyness in
the dawn of this new relationship...

that is until the woman-child crosses the lawn
and buries her tear-stained face in her mother's
hair and for a moment...they are, still...