The rhythm of our feet on cobblestones
begins like morning.
This country is certain. It opens
its wings like a newly –hatched eagle.
I steal the green fields, comb them through my hair,
bathe in the soil until I am black and this is home.
The sun, a last cackle rubbing the sky, and
I delve deeper into the road with each step.
My arms become my sisters’,
driven from my shoulders by the tongue
that rattles broken in my throat.
Time slides flat as the land.
Dusk spurs a horse over a fence,
her eyes whip us as she shakes,
steadies, then stretches past.
A drunken man sitting outside a café buys us ice cream.
He knows even our breath droops in the evening heat.
In bed our talk, like our feet,
swell and sag with sleep.
My arms, my sisters’ arms fold around me.
Morning begins the rhythm of departures.
While in her teens and twenties, Heidi Henkel Seaborn wrote, published, and won writing contests. She also gave extensive public readings of her poetry. Then life got in the way. After three decades, three kids, four marriages, 27 moves and a successful business career, she started writing again late last year with the advantage of all that life. Living in Seattle, she is currently benefiting from the mentorship of David Wagoner and the wonderful community of the Richard Hugo House.