After We Left

There is a certain nostalgia,
a certain romance,
in places you have left behind.

The house on Thornwood Lane
seemed to bloom once we left it,
as if our absence
was the best thing to happen to it.

The swings creaked softer in memory.
The weeds were no longer weeds
but wildflowers left to grow freely.

The crows we feared as children
became sparrows somehow.

Even the cracked windows
looked whole from far away,
catching sunset light
like stained glass.

The porch light glowed warmer
than I ever remembered it.

Bunnies and butterflies
seemed to gather in the garden,
as if the overgrown clovers
had invited them to tea.

And somewhere beyond the fence line,
a boy with a crooked smile
still skates down Middlefork Road at dusk.

Funny how distance
turns abandoned places
into fairytales.