TFR Home Page | Contents | Prev. Page | Next Page | Comments |
Who's Lost? By Andrea L. Alterman I'm half past tired and you're not home, I'm ready to call on God in his heaven to go out to find you wherever you are hiding, and I'm sure you are hiding from me or keeping some secret that I want to know underneath your sweet eyes that smile when we get together after a day at work, or hours spent hiking through trails leading to a stream filled with curls of water sweeping around wooden poles and Jesus bugs skimming the top off the transparent mirage of a noonday sun staring back at us. I'm sure I must have missed you back in the woods somewhere, looking in your binoculars at a common yellowthroat as mosquitoes swarmed your sweaty elbows dripping salt down into the soft marsh where frogs sat waiting for the right time to chorus, and a pileated woodpecker pinged at the dead wood of an old oak, standing naked amid the saplings swaying below its lowest branches and I'm waiting here, half past worried, three quarters fidgeting, waiting for a word or a sound that will tell me you're home. |
© Copyright 1997, 2024, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 12/03/2006