I gather armloads of spring, the reasons: Azaleas for their closeness to the sound Of your name, luscious crab apples add My measure of blood to the beating of wings, That hidden gesture language of your arms. All of this requires celebration.

See even though I can’t raise my eyes As you speak to me, I have to look away to let My pain rest on the back of a chair or the carpet, Opening that door beyond this imagined door Brings to me your perfume mixed with coffee For that I bring these flowers that also contain you,

Honey’s essence. Such offerings are required to complete this hive, To convince myself that this really is 2003 and outside It’s spring. If the breaking of branches are the stitches Tying together my sequence of disembodied days, then placing Them in the bamboo jar is as if I am adding bits of rock to the cairn where our lives flap like prayer flags in the West wind!