Each morning I revisit
the impasse of time:
mountain bluebird,
fury of wasps
on an outside lamp. Life
as juncture, repetition, epiphany.
Two years before you died,
you wrote me a letter
about the secret world we shared,
word play, euphony.
How lucky I was,
you said,
capturing a place
that felt like Home.
I relived it for an afternoon
reading old letters and notebooks.
Today I summon the colors
of that time, twinge green, blue pang.
Frowsy yellow bees
animate the ponderosa pine
outside my window
and I see how it is:
a stealthy sting,
the plait of past and present
a reckoning and a pause,
love having the last word.
