Yesterday, I left the city,
worried as always
and gray with exhaust
—not for good,
just a weekend of quiet
and solace and meander.

I’m always surprised
by the bigger dimensions
of a smaller place,
the unbroken sky,
some furrowed hills,
an uprising of trees.

I saw parking lot stairs
where a rosemary bush
had been squatting for years,
fat, pompous, four dollars a spine
in most city stores.

I followed a running path
where the asphalt gave out
on the edge of a shimmering wood,
and saw geese with mullets
in a serious argument,
who, even if they’d seen me,
wouldn’t have whistled.

I ran by headless daffodils
on a cemetery road,
and saw a hasty ramp
at the crest of a hill,
green and slick
and way too high—
bicycle tracks still fresh,
the afternoon still ringing
with the scream of a boy
who traded his spleen
for a chance to fly.

I’m starting to believe it’s possible
to feel at home in a green place,
with probable twists and familiar faces,
one that grows over fences
and sounds like bees
and has all the time in the world.

And no one is more surprised than me.