Where You Find Me, for Bliss by Joanne Clarkson

Turn at the sea road. Again
by the pasture with three mares
the color of wishes: white,
chestnut and dun. Turn right
one final time
where someone has painted
a wolf on a mailbox.

On this street
remember the number?
Count apple trees, five
until our sidewalk. Then roses
and yellow pansies.

You will know from a backseat window
or nap on a homeward shoulder.

We never minded rain
or leaves blowing over our shadows.
Come back whenever you need to.
I will not leave even if I have to.

Three mares outlast the seasons,
a new tract of houses: white,
tan, pale green. The wolf
might move to the mountains

but the mailbox calls in a dream
where we are baking, braiding
and reading, humming
the silly old rhymes
in voices hoarse with joy.