We told each other our move was temporary,
but we never had the chance to return.
In fall, homesickness turned to sorrow.
In winter, the fields turned to cowshit and mud.

We never had the chance to return
to our home warmed by southern windows and wood.
In winter, when the fields turned to cowshit and mud,
I would walk the washed-out gravel drive

to our home, once warmed by southern windows and wood,
and cry at all we’d left and all we’d lost.
I would walk the washed-out gravel drive
alone in the frozen silence that comes before snow.

I cried at all we’d left and all we’d lost
when he fell asleep at night
in the frozen silence that comes with snow.
We had told each other our move was temporary.