May Home after a Year Away
Bridal wreath. White rhododendron. Dogwood. My town. At dawn, six or seven people— hard to know if one shape's just a bundle— sleeping on the Common's tender new grass and on the granite benches. Dandelion puffs cluster in the green; didn't we once take deep breaths and blow the gossamer off and make a wish? With each return home, I seem to love it more, yet with less terror.
What would I wish for now? What wasn't working still isn't. My friends' sorrows, mine again. If only we could carry this sweet spring in us anywhere ... I hope I die in May, some one to scatter my ashes—
Is that it, Gail, the wish you make in your happiness?
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