I'm calling you back.

I'm calling you back.
I.
The train along the tracks. There out the window a dream is passing.
You had been my home. Sustenance.
When you returned to go through old boxes of memories,
I watched from another room.
It was you there with me. Kisses.
"It's all right to go on," you said.
"What was the hospital like?" I asked.
You couldn't remember,
Just stood near the rack of old clothes and the box of  photographs.

Outside the window, darkness.
The rhythmic sound of tracks, a heartbeat.
Heading home.
The mist rising.

II.
She stood in the middle of the room on the worn linoleum floor,
Yellow with age now.
Round she turned,
Her hair grey.
What was this place?
How had she got here?

Outside the kitchen window the yard.
Darkness gathered and fear took her.
It shook and rattled. It dove down deep.
Interior recesses. Into the cave of her small body.
It lodged there. Cowering against a black back wall.
Refused to budge. Hunkering down it shivered.
In its tiny fist a small hard perfectly round rock.

III.
Spring coming.
All the losses stacked up and dissolved in a mist,
Everything blown open,
The wind crossed over,
The window opened,
Circled round joy.

Pure, recognizable, ancient, old as the world itself.
Both places, all things.
A bird took up its song, started out in the yard to sing.
She crossed the floor to the window and stood looking out.
Something in her unraveled.
The sky alive all blue.

Opening the back porch door, she went out into the garden,
In her apron pocket, seeds.
She turned the moist earth, opened a small dark space,
And dropped a seed, perfectly round, into place.