Heart Fires

Though I often return to our house in memory,
the springtime visits are the most poignant.

When birdsongs I haven’t heard since last season
welcome me to morning,
and the slant of sun on my skin is noticeable for its’ warmth;
when the air smells of the earth yawning and stretching,

that is when I leave this apartment in my mind
and take a long visit to our house.

I find the lime green tips of chive shoots in the garden.
My fingers brush fuzzy new buds on the sage
and the blood root by the shed;
its’ white petals are a vivid contrast
to soil that is dark and moist like coffee grounds.

I whisper words of welcome and encouragement to the asparagus bed.
I inspect the forsythia for signs of emerging buds,
always the first bright herald of the new season.

The day is filled with the making of lists–
spring clean-up chores, plots for vegetable beds,
seeds to order.
I make macaroni salad and burgers on the grill
(the official declaration of the summer season)
and we bask on the sunny deck, watching the Phoebes,
and declare the weather glorious (ignoring the lingering North wind).

But despite our wishes to make the day last,
the sun lowers behind the tree line,
and the early- April chill returns with dusk.
We make a hasty retreat to the house to build the fire.

I imagine that’s how the phrase “home fires” came to be.

On the first warm day of spring,
someone missing their old homestead
took a fine ramble through memory

that lit a fire in their heart at dusk.