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.