the mud room I never cleaned.
A muffin tin hangs
on a sturdy peg
pounded in
by one before

us,
the dog greeting
me at the door,
the kitchen spilling warm light,
the stout old Revere
whose oven doesn’t close tight.
(Those burners stayed lit
when the trees were bent

with ice.)
A passage through
to pause at the foot of the stairs
to touch the column there.
I love its square, Ionic grace
we left
unfinished;

just two steps up
a landing,
a window that doesn’t open,
I find my missing Prodigal,
      the rail ripped off its hooks
      and then repaired,

the climb to the light
that doesn’t work,
my deepest loss,
and a small turn
toward light
where bathing waits,
lavender and ginger
in the air

a shriek,
my captain
of the football team
on a video losing
streak.

It’s hallowed here.

I try to think of a joke
in that distance of just a few feet
between your welcome door and mine

a quickened step
a laugh
an embrace

My voice cries out for more
like you, my accidental grace.