Poem #63: Not the One
Not the One
That house, where the cedars stand so close to the bank of kitchen windows that they tap and rattle, as if asking to be let in, when the north wind roars down off mountain?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That park, whose dusty gravel walks and old, rutted roads lead to a lakeshore, where we rested on a sun-warmed boulder, and you slept with your head in my lap?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That garden, where shafts of light illuminate each floating moth, gnat, and dragonfly so they fill the air, standing out against the ancient forest like a galaxy of living stars?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That third-floor window, from which your lamp spilled a golden welcome that pooled around the gate post we leaned against and kissed a final goodnight?
It's not the one I'm looking for.
That bench, worn smooth over the years, where we listened to the surf and the cool breeze stained our cheeks a vivid raspberry hue, as it had our parents' before us?
It is not the one.
It is not the one.
I am looking.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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