Still the Same
by Joyce Wilson
We drove right home from the airport,
opened the door to our house where
the sunlight pouring through windows,
geranium above the sink,
enameled table with papers,
old maps, and books were all the same.
Outside, the gardens were the same,
the grass still green, the maple red,
the yellow marigolds still full,
the zinnias still red, orange,
magenta, lemon, pink, and white.
I saw the signs of early frost:
the withered leaves down near the ground,
the browned petals on several blooms
above. But most were still so bright
and full: they seemed the same. I clipped
them for the blue ceramic vase,
brought apples up from the cellar
to make a cake. A cake in the oven
would warm up the chilly kitchen.
Soon we would go and get your mother
and bring her home from the hospital.
How glad she would be to see the kitchen
with apples ready for a cake,
the sunlight pouring through windows,
geranium above the sink,
enameled table with papers,
old maps, and books, the woolen hat.
How she would smile at flowers still
Colorful in the bright blue vase.
If skies should turn and winds flatten
the green grass, then tear the burnt leaves
from the branches of the red maple —
if rain should fall with pelting sounds —
we would sit together, waiting
for the cake to rise, to taste it, to
agree it was as good as one
we baked before, the special one
we remembered, when all that we
knew seemed to rise up from our share
where it was still, and our love the same.
Copyright © 2015 by Joyce Wilson.