Down the hill, in the field of sweet alfalfa, they're <br /> freezing each other, the children <br /> <br />playing tag and I'm up at the house, I'm <br />in the picture window, thin <br />and distant like the glimpse <br /> <br />of a surfacing fish. What dark waters <br />the house is, behind me, settling <br />into evening. Dusk <br /> <br />and there are, of course, fireflies. Tell me, <br />what was your name? When you visited once, <br /> <br />by the backroad where the stones glowed pale <br />in the moonlight, I was too young, I still thought <br />I belonged to the world. But now <br /> <br />quartered in this house, watching the neighbors' children <br />turn to dusk, I feel <br />I'm ready. Come back <br /> <br />and bring your finest wine, the oldest bottle. <br />Bring that strange dusty book you were reading.<br /><br />Kate Northrop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-visitor-3/
