This Dry Bone

Across the road I gaze in fear,
What has come of my former home.
Only to think its been not a year
When I arrived at this dry bone.
All the many weeds-they hiss
The pond run out of waves
I still remember the frog I kissed
Then was told to behave.
Yet only two, I still remember
the clarity and joy of the Bend.
The soil stained with darkened ember
and swollen pebbles on end.
I feel someday I will return
to the dry bone left here,
and I'll try to refuse the hardened burn
of tears I will not bear.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009