Hemlock Ave, January 21st
Walking silently down that same quiet street
I stopped where the small house
used to be, where my life began in a new country.
In this small city the fog on summer evenings lingered.
Giant pine trees, dramatic limbs black
against the small cottage, shadowed
the tall houses on the street.
Standing there alone, I hear waves
pounding the shore,
listen for echoes of my children’s footsteps
as they drifted in one after the other from school,
and for what might have been . . .
A new house, bigger, double story,
rests on the tiny grave.