There seems to be something left of winter,
but not really. More like raw spring,
the sky grew dark to the west and then
it rained, and then the cold sting of hail.
Hours gone, the girls are in bed. There is
a wooden train track coursing through
the living room, all loops and circles.
There are ashes in the fireplace.
The furnace kicks on, humming easy;
my hands are warm.
Somehow, and rather suddenly,
I find myself home, after so much wandering.