The Farm
I used to race through tussock grass
on feet that never failed,
where paths split three ways: farm and woods,
and coast, where cold winds wailed.
The note was left on her doorstep
because she was still in bed.
Was it just, “Are you okay?”
or did the wind take what it said?
On the farm were mud and rain,
chicken coops and horses near,
baked potatoes, friends pulled close,
and a world made wide from here.
The note was left on her doorstep
because the mailbox had no name.
Was it just, “Are you okay?”
or did the cat make off with the same?
In the woods were makeshift tents,
campfire smoke and nicked-up hands,
pine and toasted marshmallows,
and warmth behind the windbreak stands.
The note was left on her doorstep;
perhaps I shouldn’t have.
Was it just, “Are you okay?”
or a reason to go back?
By the coast, the chill struck bone,
with brine and distant barns,
but glass brought sea life near,
and time to wish myself warm.
The note was left on her doorstep;
I should have known it then.
It wasn’t asking, “Are you okay?”
but a plea to be used again.