Cedar

At last, like cemented veins, our streets have resurfaced.

A brilliant divide between oak and hope.

Rough against the flat of my foot but like before

my toes are soft to the step.

I walk the oak fence, piece-by-piece,

tracing the line by hand.

Ignoring drops where wood becomes absent,

ignoring rough snags on my calices,

ignoring disobedient nails for better or worse.

Following from wrist to elbow, a sudden left,

and home is a sun-caused freckle amidst a patch of trees.

Wind whirls like breaths of yesterday,

silent again, but I feel the sadness.

I walk the driveways of familiarity, balancing on cracks,

none of which are cause for concern.

I make sure to sit at each doorstep, an eager eye turned toward the hill,

a lonely arm turned toward the door,

and the scenes are just the same.

At last, like cemented veins

our streets have resurfaced,

A brilliant divide between oak and hope.

I'll take a right.