Once you’ve gone
what more is there
to say about leaving
or, for that matter,
the impermanence
of measured words.
All I can do is stand
alone in the backyard
and listen to the wind.
A late frost killed
the magnolia buds
and the forsythia
never materialized.
And so I wait for the worms
to begin their earthy work.
I wait for the pink moon
to rise above the rooftops.
I wait for the smell of mock orange
and the blue of a broken robin’s egg.
But most of all
I wait for your
words to bloom,
to tell me, finally,
that spring is here—
that the gardens we tend to
have something more to say.