I step out

onto the back stoop,

long since grown over

and swallowed by spring.

 

We found a four-leaf clover 

growing between bricks

on the second step once

and couldn’t decide whether to pick it

or water it. 

But that was long ago,

in those days of counting

years and dreams on fingertips.

 

In the yard, now ankle-high

with late-August crabgrass

and dollar weeds,

I wait for you by the gate.

The sagging, picket gate 

that used to bang shut behind us

like a starting pistol

as we raced through the streets

of our father’s wheat cities,

trying to outrun junior high,

 

With you 

always eight to my six,

twelve to my ten,

sun to my shadow. 

 

Now to come back quietly,

and watch you drive the day

across the fields

and back behind the mountains

on that old John Deere

that used to be Dad’s.

​

We come back 

to turn the soil 

of our family history

and plant new crops 

between old roots.

 

Reaching forward 

with one hand

and backwards with the other,

finding home at both ends.