with its tiny kitchen, your
bike resting along the wall under the clock
like it was waiting for the seasons to change
the ice-slick front steps and
the back door that we always hoped
was open. The two small rooms were
just enough and the bathroom was
my favorite yellow.
We'd stay up late and listen
to the foreign neighbors, dancing
or fighting, and we'd wake late
too. Make the short walk to
the corner because you didn't
have a coffee pot and tea never
did the trick for me.
It was cold then. Colder than
I remember it ever being. The
walk was not so bad though,
because the pocket of your pea coat
had a silky lining and I was always
allowed to put my mitten there.
But that was winter love. A cold
and factual kind. And it went away before
spring. It felt right. The same way that
fall creeps up. Leaves turn and fall a
few at a time. Branches grow out of
them and don't throw fits or beg them
to stay.
The kind of change that lets you look
back fondly. And say:
that was right, in its season.
