We expect so much from each spring,
ice shelves to tumble, arms to
shed jackets,
waves to lead in familiar tides—
breath catches, such astonishing
love.
Before words, all we have is the body,
world narrowing to a tiny stream,
waking and rest, open mouths and satiety,
easing them through the early quiet days.
This is all we should know—waves
bringing life towards us, small roots
deepening, arms unfurling, as our tide
recedes, brittle and simple as
winter.
We cannot expect the unnatural cadence
of easing them through the last quiet days,
slipping the jacket from their arms
to draw around us, breathing the fabric,
or worse, it comes in a sudden surge of ice.
After words, all we have is the body,
familiar and lonely like a hollow tree.
Tide stills, frozen water, fathomless grief.
