The apples blossomed first. The old apricot’s
fruit we missed visiting inquisitive relatives.
The exuberant migratory bird
who passed through last week has left us
and this evening in the garden recalls
the surreptitious spring we shared
in a backwater province more home than here.
So fertile then, we eked through months
of bliss with fear. Nothing came of it but
my now looking from this knoll to the light
matted by the screen of our kitchen door.
So this is what we engendered seasons ago,
our bodies buds longing to be leaves.