It was late in December, and you were
visiting from the coast, the thick snow falling
all around us as if in slow motion,
rounding the corners in silence.
You were pointing out the streets and storefronts
you remembered, spoke of friends long since
moved away, turning down a side street
to point out the brownstone where you once lived,
its windows unusually small, its soft yellow light
seemingly from another time and place.
You put in that old cassette, fingers half frozen,
someone singing, as so many others have,
about home -- a little flat, a little off key, but familiar
enough that we remembered every word,
the way a kiss, or the touch of a hand can return
years later, as if they never had left.
How could I tell you in the stillness of that
moment -- you gazing dreamily into your past,
that this -- this very moment -- felt like home to me,
somewhere I longed to stay, if only for a while,
the breath of our words finding each other
without hurry, our jackets smelling of wet sky,
the frozen earth rising, imperceptibly,
to hold us there, before moving on again.
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