For the final day (woohoo!) of Poetry Month, I followed the NaPoWriMo prompt asking for a poem about something that returns.
What Comes Back
Some returns require nothing —
geese, poplar leaves, sunrise —
but our attention.
Other returns demand such faith:
phone call from a doctor
child taking their first solo bike ride
teenager late home from a party
lover gone away on business, mid-winter
cat, escaped out the door left carelessly open
A sense of safety,
oblivion to danger.
A feeling, warm in the chest,
that just as the grass greens,
the apple trees blossom
happiness will come home to its heart.