Barren

Spring brings a fog

That cradles our belief

That home is not just an elusive boundary
Of imagined comfort and safety
An illusory hope, a mirage
But one we manifest concrete (or so we think)
With four walls, a two car garage...

The dead of winter clears the mind

Time slows, allowing for new sight

And we remember this is our sickness unto death;
Just like Thomas Wolfe said:
You can never go home again.

Return, return in the fall I did

To see what I'd left behind

A full season between us 

I walked for miles in a straight line

Searching the shore for your black truck,

Trying to imagine what it was

That had made you love this patch of beach so much.

Ready to give up, I rested by the surf to watch the osprey hunt

Many moments passed, yet none appeared

And I thought to myself,
"I'd never go fishing here."