I took a short journey north, during which there was a great deal of rain; and when I returned, the redbud trees had bloomed and the goldfinches had molted into their bright yellow plumage.
So I have three days of poem drafts to post.
The first holiday without,
grief burns like anger.
Irritant. Tough fibers
scraping at skin raise a rash,
sore during celebration.
Empty ritual this year.
Empty place at the table–
bitter, bitter herbs.
Along tree line’s haze
of new growth, the blur–
Sky’s cloudy, grass strewn
with petals might almost
be snow, but goldfinch
perches yellow on beech’s
Not snow but Spring.
The drive isn’t always pleasant:
too much traffic, too much rain,
too many miles between friends,
but I will accompany you.
Mutual miles, mutual acquaintances–
though much impedes marriage,
true minds admit true friends into
the equation, complex and contradictory,
at which we work consistently;
they are our common denominators.