Greeting

On my way from the coffee shop, hello
from passersby, gentle nodding in return.

As I get nearer to Scotchpine Street,
wings of birches—thousands of hellos back
as I was taught.

On opening the door, a gust of yeast
stings my nose; he is baking
the second loaf for dear Autumn.

Exchanging hugs,
whispering, “Hello.”