After the Ice Storm My Son Does Not Come Home

by Diane Lockward

Hours after he stormed out, wind knocks
ice off the roof, startles me awake.
2 AM—light under the door. Not home,
and I'd said no later than midnight.

I practice deep breathing, natural tranquilizer,
five counts in, hold it in the diaphragm,
let it out slowly, repeat five times, relax, and go back
to a sleep without dreams.

It's been so long since I've dreamed,
I'd be grateful now for even that old one
where I show up someplace important, take off my coat,
and I'm in panties and bra, or worse, naked.

And I'm still wondering if he'll be okay,
if he'll ever find his way home,
if maybe I'll be happy when I'm old,
and if I can wait that long.

Hours later I wake and see the first crocus
pushing purple through the sheen of ice.
A day of lifting towards the light,
the delicate petals unfolding.

I want it to be like that for him—
sunlight, the wind will stop blowing,
and he'll find his way home.