nostalgic love.

A second, a minute, perhaps an hour pass
my daughter says come on and
the coins of a home past
sitting in a bowl, catch my eye.
She was four.
American, bright eyed and ready for adventure
unaware that her life was different from the friends left behind.

Today, a new home.
Still American but painted with the warm wash
of magentas and marigolds
covered in ceremonial incense haze, jasmine.
A bit more hesitant of new than she was when she began
and yet she reaches for the handle, feet steady and sure.

Come on she says and the door opens wide,
metal banging on concrete walls,
to a circle of cool blues and gray, subdued.
The warmth of her hand wakes me from nostalgia
and together we approach today aware of minutes ahead.