by Creed Kidney

Yellow
is how I think of home.

The lane
dressed for the coming summer,
all in the pageantry
of seasons.

I smell them,
sweetly
upon the breeze;
their spindly branches,
reaching ever higher
towards the sun.

Their collection is grand,
resting
along the roadside;
each flower,
a different memory,
each limb,
a different name.

Homesickness is kept
betwixt the branches
of forsythia.

[ display-posts category=”poetry”]