Water dripped from the neighbor’s spigot as the planet held tight to its pocket of time. You told me the joke and the next day I saw tiger lilies everywhere. I wasn’t sure if I had just begun to notice them or if there had been some massive overnight planting.
True, it’s been years since I was last in love,
since someone considered winking at me.
And years since I’ve seen anyone buried or born.
The sun shines deep his bawdy light into shrewd strangers
I woke with a wet pillow and hair tangled,
I didn’t care.
It was Sunday.
I heard an owl outside the kitchen window,
winged and cloaked in velvety dark
The forestry man says the tree is over
three hundred years old, a sugar Maple that has been here
since before the time the white man settled.
Ally tells me her husband is adjusting,
that they all are, that the diagnosis
is for the right kind of cancer, if that
The spring day when after the dark subway
the light was blinding and the last of the snow
melted, trickling into the gutters, but still
there was the scent of fresh snow.
Work was over at last and there
wasn’t a thought of tomorrow.
There were flowers like lit candles
on the corner near Old South Church
and just enough money for daffodils
that came dripping from the bucket,
daffodils carried home to our room.
where we sat without having to talk.
And I became part of the sun-struck
halo, the snow-washed high windows,
the silvery mirror, voices rising
from the street, walls saturated
with ghost music, passengers peering
from train windows and those arriving
to vanish in the distant Back Bay streets.