Watching the dew gather
in a sigh upon the grass, your absence feels
like a spider loitering on the soul.
What strange tensility the soul’s skin has,
to endure for years the sledges of grief,
only to break now against the fog
raising its hymn
among the blushing maple.
Sometimes I’ve nothing left
but to touch that absence as one would
the cheek of a sleeping child
and marvel at how this dogged grove
weaves the sun and works the rain
into one more lush renewal.