Dreaming of Home

The dry desert, no rain in three months —
where have all the flowers gone?
He rises from his bed, walks to the
window; with his thumb and forefinger,
he separates the blinds slightly not to
bring too much light into the room and
disturb his sleeping wife. The dog,
sensitive to all sounds, is, of course,
awake and looking at him. He peers out
at the vinca-vine on the hill-side, hoping
to see blue crocuses popping up through
the remaining snow. They aren’t there;
neither is the snow; yellow daffodils,
given as a gift by a former parishioner
from Kentucky, are beginning to unfold.
He lets go of the blinds, the darkness
enveloping, only to feel the desert heat


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