Wednesday, June 16, 2010

A Welcoming Home

From the belly of the crowded airport
A mom’s cheer rose.
It was the sound of someone with heavy attachments.*

(*A nod to the only poem  I’ve
ever memorized—Robert
Bly’s The Loon’s Cry
Bly’s poetry completely changed
how I viewed my life . . . perhaps
even, how I lived my life—
back when I was an undergraduate English
major at the University of North Dakota
Oh blessed land of harsh weather
and sturdy peoples.
I could finally see the beauty in
a simple walk by the Red River of
the North or in the grain elevators
erupting quietly near the town center
of each drive-thru small town
in eastern Montana where you only
linger long enough to find your way
to some other place).

And so we walk through the terminal
and back to the car, hand in hand.
She tells me that it is so strange
to see the small white face of her
nine-month old brother.
The leaves have left and returned
in new clothing since she was last
with us. Opening the car door,
I catch my breath when I realize that
my heart has spent the last ten months
inside an antique china tea cup;
the kind that can chip too easily;
the kind put up behind glass.

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