No Reason to Hurry Home?

Life flow as little creek slow for
the semi-retiree; on the way home, stop by
the water, to see how the beavers’ doing,
no mud, no beaver, just a memory of
the hot summer evening, swim with
the children, and the stranger,

his bald head above the water,
like a hollow, pale pumpkin float
in the twilight…
stop at the bridge,
see the swallows’ nests, as usual all empty,
worry, lest they’ll be endangered species.
Head home, no reason to hurry, yet

feel like something waiting,
like a bruised desire or the one of a child.
Home, in the old box,
the ol’ unfinished project frowns;
mother in the grave. Urges, now’s the time
to blow the life in it. Or else. 

©Byung A. Fallgren