In November I watch the sycamores
along the river turn amber to brown.
In the stiff breeze leaves break away
fall into the river, drift in its eddies.
In April minnows return to feed
in river shallows. Turtles appear
sunning in long lines on fallen logs.
Couples return to walk the river bank.
I sit by this window
with skeins of yarn, running soft thread
through my fingers, waiting, watching,
wondering if you still dream of home
as often as I dream of your return.