In the balcony

It's time to give the plants a drink.
In the balcony I pour water into 
soil, wait for excess to drain.
Day is giving way to dark:
a clear deep blue on the northern sky.
Above the jacaranda trees, a bird
sails home, an orange tissue
crumples the air.
Indoors are photographs of those I miss:
Mum posing in a kimono.
And there is Dad who would tickle the spaces
between my ribs as I spun on the floor --
tied to my body where his fingers held me
-- then flew apart.
Music flows from the heart
of the house to every room.
Things are just as I've left them.
Stew is simmering on the stove.
Salad servers stick out of 
the wooden bowl. Rainbow 
of vegetables tossed and relaxed.
I tilt the watering-can over the last pot of herbs,
the distant oak now full of night, as a star
presses his gentle face into the sky.
I want to go inside and smell my dinner.
I want to light my candles, while the earth
slows down to breathe, until they begin
to tell their good stories in soft low voices.

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