This spring you have found nothing
left on your doorstep, no package
filled with moonbeams, nor fiery
letters carved blazing in chilly air.
Deep into April, frost lingers, stroking
your throat with an icy hand.
In your pocket, something buzzes,
a message from across the sea.
Your friend is dying.
His music spins across your brain,
another old song cut from velvet
and wine, piano and snare drum
backing the golden trumpet’s wail.
A yellow dog trails across your yard,
stops to shake its slender body,
then chases a squirrel up a leafless oak.
Along the river, endless play of light
and clouds. Grackles leap from budding willows,
skim shadows on the water’s cold, smooth flesh.