Red Hook

You wake at last in the neighborhood you've courted so long. The nooks and rooms of the apartment stretch in different directions, like a labyrinth, ready to discovered. You feel right. Out of the kitchen window, between tree branches, you see the Statue of Liberty rise to the morning, and it feels just like that summer in Greenpoint, when you sat looking at the city and thinking only of how this was quite where you were meant to be. In a few months, the view will be shrouded in foliage, it is a cycle of gifts. 

I sit at the little writing desk in the window, looking down on Brooklyn backyards, rising projects, the dots of water towers. A heat riser churns behind me, the ground lies bare yet, but all I see is spring in the sunrise. There are words here, I can feel them, can sense the return of stories in my blood, and as such, 

I am already home.