Nesting

Getting ready to leave on a long trip,

I’m conscious of being grounded by

the pale green lichen on a branch with rough bark

the smooth richness of Greek fig yogurt.

I prowl around the drugstore, looking for 
     potions, talismans. 

Black mascara, rye crisp, miniature tubes of 
     Colgate Whitening,

the momentary temptation of a nailpolish

the color of the blue against the evil eye.

(I love to travel, so it’s got nothing to do with that.)

With me I take lavender to lay among my clothes,

two British mysteries I’ll read cover to cover 
     on the planes,

stories and poems I’m working on, in a 
     maroon folder,

in case my muse deigns to take off her earbuds 
     and talk to me.

My favorite flannel nightgown with its seven 
     white buttons.

A compact quarter-pound of Peet’s French roast 
     decaf, Melita grind.

Coming home again, I must first wander 
     through the house,

turn on the heaters, microwave my purple striped 
     beanbag,

make tea in both teapots to go in the refrigerator 
     for tomorrow,

fill the bird bath, water my lime tree since it 
     looks like it hasn’t rained.

And after all these homecoming rituals, 
    start to miss being away.

—Christie