In mid April, for two short weeks
the Magnoliabreaks its blossoms over the deck
each of its eyes open widethe fleshly creamery ofeach unfolded budorganic Mandela of intentiongrown from shadow, underworld.
One morning as we watch, enjoyout of nowhere, aftertwenty years of marriageyou tell me you are emptydepressed
You do not know why, what it meansrefuse to talk, cannot talk.
I cannot knowwhat this will mean for me
I have mistaken distance, stillnessfor love.
Like the Springthis way of being has just arrived
born in deep black flowersthat spread themselves around usmove beyond us, into the house.
Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash