By H. T. Wald

When will you come
visit me in hills
where Paleolithic hands painted
where Cathars became Perfect
where men still speak of the earth

When will you come
sip the wine
feast together
sit in the garden by the old stone wall
remembering how you laughed so hard the chair broke
and you said “If I could live here”

When will you pack your bags lightly
for your cousin to drive you to the airport
for the plane to Paris or Toulouse or Bordeaux
for a train to the station where I’ll pick you up
just thirty minutes away

When will you come to the hills
Where you dreamt that you cloaked yourself
in a landscape of fertile green and felt
so secure and free
at home “If I could live here”

When will you come
stay in the village
rejoice in the seasons
explore the known and unknown of ourselves
each other and the world at this wooden table

When will you come
as you said you would come
some day soon
if you could
live here

© 2010

H. T. Wald is a writer and poet.

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