Perhaps it’s the way this dead-end road

       suggests an arrival—

the sense of stepping

       from a swift current

into spring’s green heart, this overgrown plot

       where water’s taught itself lift

has learned leaf and flourish, leaned into breeze and bloomed

        lush rooms like this one,

where birds

       chatter from so many

sides it seems the color green

        is singing: the tasseled grass

so improbably tall its feathered

        crowns nod at my shoulders,

while the old oaks stir

        in the arms of their leaves—

Perhaps it’s the brazen hopefulness of the world

        just now reviving and already

reckless again for life,

        as if life were always

worth what it costs us. Suddenly

        this is where I believe

you’ll come back.

        While I face the white choir of a wild rose,

you step close behind me in your quiet way,

        extend a hand toward my shoulder—

—I’m waiting to feel it.

        To hear you say my name.