By Julie Stuckey
Because I am here
it is often said that I cannot be
And yet, in the heart of today’s city
I have walked through younger woods –
past the springhouse and skunk cabbage,
down to my calming childhood creek.
Just yesterday in my kitchen,
while gazing out the window
I found myself stilled—
Dad calls me back for dinner –
though he has been buried 12 years now.
In an instant I am
lost in search of crawdads and tadpoles –
small fingers hold again the smooth jar
full of winking fireflies.
And so I do not believe
that time is measurable or definite –
cannot pretend to discuss its finitude…
I still race up the hill toward home.
Copyright Stuckey 2012