I will be looking over the horizon,
the sun dipping into the train tracks.
Something beyond what I know exists.
I will fall into a bed of dandelions
and that old smell will creep into my nose again.

I will eventually be a vertical traveler,
picked up by the carrying wind,
and we will meet again, ghost for ghost.
In dreams you come to me, for I couldn’t very well
come home and see you at a boiling pot.

Splitting cloud that is your magnified eye,
it’s also a map, a hand outreached, guiding and leading.

Amanda Tumminaro lives in Illinois with her family. She enjoys libraries and caffeinated drinks. Her poetry has appeared in Storm Cellar, Sassafras Literary Magazine, Hot Metal Bridge and Three and a half point 9, among others.