Maybe I wish for too much, for all to return to abnormal
For hummingbirds to satellite around my grassy front yard
For whatever that aches in my heart to explode into color.
I glimpse the tree-curtained road through a blur of topography
Pondering the age-old crying of the windblown birches
Torn between one meaningless thing or other
Still hoping that escape and return are not two choices
But one.