20.

I brush the clouds away
See their tails fading
against the blue?
and chase the leaves away
from the edges
of your garden.
In autumn, I set
the bulbs to sleep
and the plants to rest
before the snow.
Your windows wore my paint
each January morning
the needles and ropes
of a night’s designing.
Come March, I nudge
and tug the things
to place again
to bloom and sway
for you, m’lady. For you.
Summer I cannot stay
within the house
the fields and greens call
the nights long to dance
the moon warm and bright
the sun hot and drowsy
we dance with the world
in its fullness.
Tiptoeing in late
I brush the clouds away
from your dreams,
brush the care
from your brows,
before I rest myself.

19.

I brushed away the cobweb
you’d left by the door
and I opened the door
to let that most wonderful
first warm air of spring inside.
I stood outside myself
letting it run over
my own body too long cold.
This wave of April,
yearly repeated miracle,
pushes us like a seed
green from the cold ground,
believing that the winter
will not come again.
We so quickly forget the cold
in remembering this warm breeze.
I stood in the yard,
face to the sun,
near sprouting leaves of my own
there in the still-brown yard.
You came to the open door and
felt the spring returning
the warm moist air
like a part of your skin.
You pushed back your hair
and sniffed the air.
You yelled, “Who
left the door open?”
before turning your face
to the sun.