for Jack and Julie
Though I am running on a dirt road in Colorado
my mind is in Michigan near a small pond
where dozens of stoic frogs rest around a stone Buddha.
The Buddha, I suppose, would disapprove
and tell me to let my thoughts be where I am,
but there is joy in letting them run free
and noticing where they choose to go.
They move from the pond up the steps and into a house,
then stroll into rooms where books
are piled in every corner and a new puppy
begs to be loved. We all want to be loved,
don’t we, which is perhaps why my thoughts
continue to run to this warm kitchen where
the tea pot is always ready with hot water
and there is a half-complete drawing
waiting on the table. Home of music,
home where poetry comes for pizza,
home where love is abundant as frogs
still resting there beside the Buddha.
Odd comfort in knowing that they are still there,
those frogs, even when I am not. Odd comfort
in finding the mind knows how to return,
though it’s over a thousand miles from here—
like one of those stories about the dogs
who, against all odds, return to their owners
though they’ve been dropped off many states away.
And why not return to the voices and stories
of people we love—why not trust our internal maps
to bring us closer? Why not bring them with us
on the long dirt road where the sky is darkening
and the mile markers blur into uncertain futures?
There is so little we can trust—but this detour
feels honest, real as the smile of the Buddha
as the frogs leap all around, real as the scent
of paprika and cheese, real as the laughter in the kitchen
so humble and alive the whole world leans in.
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