Soon . . .
We are near my grandparents' house,
small red stone,
immense yard surrounding it.
Hall Street.
A front porch swing thirst for oil.
A pot of azaleas blooming.
A pine tree.
Red dirt wafting up
around my mother's newly polished shoes.
Welcome home, my grandparents say.
Their warm brown
arms around us. A white handkerchief,
embroidered with blue
to wipe away my mother's tears, And me,
the new baby, set deep
inside this love.