Monday, April 04, 2011


Pink blossoms from the cherry tree
swirl around the garden birdbath,
plush the lounge chairs, drape the table
in fragrant cover. The evergreen, too,
has thickened with flowers, leaning low
over azaleas not yet in bud.

Arriving on paths of wind-tossed petals,
a flutter of moths settles in the deserted cherry.
Its stark limbs shiver with wings
filling the indigo emptiness
like the empty places I turn from now,
before the night backs into what it was --
failing light and fading voices
reaching out toward what is lost, as if to say,
I didn't mean it, as if to say, please come home.

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