The Return
by Mary Ann Meade

I push on, the map used since birth,
suddenly of no use. No matter.
Whatever summit I choose,

I will come back through the drifts,
the earth, a sudden spring,
the cherry blossom blooming

as far east as the family porch
where in parka, I claim a seat,
my mother in the back room,

waiting for the front door to open,
and how everything keeps east:
the house, the shed, the yard.

Till someone is brushing a blossom
from my face. Someone is taking
the old map to the recycling bin.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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