Sunday in Connecticut
I drive into town.
The streets are damp and breathing,
a few clumps of snow remain
in the yards. Cars parked
in front of the church, and the old
stone library locked in sleep. Behind it,
I take my walk. I listen to the birds
and talk to my mother. I tell her about
my life, but not in words. I just walk
and breathe out what the children are doing,
who they are. She picks it all up.
When I pass the pond and reach
the shady part of the path, where the trees
interlace their fingers at the top –
I stop talking, even inside myself.