In mid April, for two short weeks
breaks its blossoms over the deck
each of its eyes open wide
the fleshly creamery of
each unfolded bud
organic Mandela of intention
grown from shadow, underworld.
One morning as we watch, enjoy
out of nowhere, after
twenty years of marriage
you tell me you are empty
You do not know why, what it means
refuse to talk, cannot talk.
I cannot know
what this will mean for me
I have mistaken distance, stillness
Like the Spring
this way of being has just arrived
born in deep black flowers
that spread themselves around us
move beyond us, into the house.
Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash