Back Door

On those days when I walk out our back door,

Inhale the sweet damp of residue left by a spring rain,

Squint my eyes in sunlight sending fresh refractions across the sky,

Touch the wind as it wraps around my being and pulls my hair,

Smile at the dogs kicking grass and mud into the air,

And see you standing as always right there–

With a drip of sweat upon your forehead,

Dirt matted in your jeans,

But a grin curling the corners of your lips–

I know I am home,

Safe where I belong,

Content with the simple life we chose.

— Written by Sandy Heights

Image by Tang Qui Đông from Pixabay