The Cure

The bush at the corner of the house
explodes softly in sprays of yellow stars.
My last step ended a pilgrimage
I should never have begun, but how lucky
I am to see this forsythia
prompted by roots to its spring duty.
The time spent trudging up and down
in strange cities picked my pockets
of a promised future and led me into
blind alleys filled
with garbage cans.
Let a bellyful of journeys teach you
homesickness; trains run late though
each station chalks up timetables
and you flip a coin
whether you go or stay.
I want to say something for
cultivating the ground you stand on
before you lie in it—and when
did you see anything as lovely and familiar
as this forsythia in full bloom.