I swore I would not get sentimental about
leaving the porch swing behind.
We painted it red to match the floor—the front door.
I swore I would not write about singing “Moon River”
to my midnight newborn while watching
headlights blur down Maple Street.
Just around the bend
baby, it is always just around the bend;
this one just happens to be
especially sharp
and icy
and dark.
I refuse to say rainbow
or promise its end
but I will paint our new door red
and we will still toss
nightly popsicle sticks
into the bushes,
ten minutes down the road.
