Particularly when
turning the corner
around the pond,
dried by half—
even now—from
summer drought,
I am compelled
to expect to see
you : magically
reflected in the
darkest shadow
of wing in water.
Sometimes a dream
sneaks through a
morning haze,
sun a quarter hour
high in the rounded
distance, like a
foggy road slow
to burn, your
face appears,
as saintly as
the tall blue bird
keeping warm
in the golden
slice of new light
in preparation
for a long flight.
Let me beg you:
don’t stay gone
too long this year.
