Her nostrils close in on the buttercups in front of her,
a mustard yellow immersed in a bright green,
it’s all new to her nose she swears,
Was it new?
Till today she’d been used to the mold and dead, frozen dirt—her playground
Buttercup and daffodil, her eyes caught sight
Have I seen this before? She thinks
and hops onto the tree stump whose roots climb her legs,
a warm tightening she can’t resist melting into
like a snug bed whom you refuse to leave
Another hop and the sweet tweets draw her chin to the sky,
wings flutter and her ears stand straight at the ready
Friend or foe, she barks
Have I seen this before?
In a fog of recent past and present, now,
She wanders back to the door: familiar and new
Sits on the front stoop,
Is this my home?
