Lisa Cappiello

Coming Home: a Poetic Journey Lisa Cappiello

Coming Home I knew it was time when I opened the window and recognized the familiar smell of spring creeping through the frosty air It was then I finally realized that finding joy in coloring outside the lines was merely my one-way ticket to blindfolded escapades in the forest; sans compass I shed my tears on the empty rooftop mourning the final time I would ever shout loud enough for the world to hear The evenness of my beloved sunset's lurid medley of hues inspired me to sever through the glass ceiling and seek screens of shade from yellow rose petals with lavender trimmings The ferocious wind couldn't simmer down my yearning; I was now decisively deaf to all the noise Slowly, I unlaced my white roller skates staring adoringly at the assortment of scuffs and scratches on the faded hot pink wheels Smiling humbly with my eyes, I sashayed down miles of glistening pavement stopping only when I rediscovered the empty seat at the rustic, rood iron-rimmed table where I once sat day after day, week after week, year after year With open arms I was embraced