L'aura del Campo

On Rosedale [169.118]

On Rosedale


You go looking for me down the road we lived on,
concrete houses all the same, except for paint.
I lived in the red one, green trimmed... Swedish colors.
The lawns a thin veneer on stubborn clay,
scrawny maples that barely grew, my elm that caught
the blight then died. I cried. Then died there too.
So long ago and now you search for me when fields
sleep beneath two feet of snow, come back again
when all is flooded by the melt. You scarce remember
ripe wild strawberries, how we stooped to pick them.
Now gone without a trace I only haunt that sweetness.
Ask my sister in that same red house. She never calls.

the roses
on Rosedale
bud, wilt.

© Kåre Enga [169.118] 8 october 2012.

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