I want to promise what comes after

is always beautiful, always worth capturing

on the page. Like when rain clouds finally part,

the light restored seems to shine more

on each tulip, daffodil, and budding

forsythia, still spotted with droplets.

Imagine love like that, where I could speak every desire

into existence. These words try, as if,

in the perfect arrangement, they could

resurrect the dead, the birch I heard collapse

mid-afternoon into the backyard pond.

But waterside lullabies are all I have to give

the afflicted. Luckily, fish care little

for accurate melodies; and for once, I don’t mind

my voice or if I get the words right.