COMING TOWARD HOME

I want to love things all by myself, not looking sidelong to see if others are loving them, too: the sky like old blue glass held in by a tracery of trees, the great horned owl’s cynical question– Who’s awake? the falling cold stars of snow.

One night I snowshoed in the woods alone, the full moon lamplight gleaming through the lace of soft snow clouds. Coming toward home I saw in the frame of an uncurtained window the painting of a summer orchard above my piano against the green wall, my husband moving across the kitchen with his teacup. I thought I would break for joy.