Inching into exile, her mind
has lost its hold. It takes
all evening to name monkshood
or pepperwort. No words,
either, for the bank swallows
pushing against the broken
edges of water. Spring
has come too early. It wasn't
like this before—the way
she looks for me even when
I'm here, her promise never
to leave me. A sun-struck crocus
studies her lips for its color,
but white is gone. The clouds
have given up their places.
The sky's one with the wind
now. One touch and the whole
tree comes apart. On the surface
the apple blossoms are silky
and the sky traces her body, wears
the sun down to my underwater eyes.