Home, again

after a seder transposed from its shofar blown day to tonight. Home from family warmth and mild insanity, eating a mouthful of a token of Spring Street home, charoset made by my brilliant brother. Back in Stiles home with the clarity of the courtyard night I walked across wishing it were a symbol of some resolution I had coming back to this place. But instead of internal clearness I am just home after flying around New Haven corners coming from the train station on a Yale shuttle that ignored red lights, home with the laundry unfolded on the futon and with my roommate sleeping across the hall and the tree Jimmy informs me is not a magnolia already fading from burst and the moon in the window waxing but bright.