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.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
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.
