Now in the Spring the geese stand on
the shreds of ice. At the end of winter
you said to leave you alone. I drive up
to Algonquin and pass the melting lakes
where I stopped to show you. I watched
you as birds blackened the trees.
Now I’ll be grateful for the fair weather,
like any other Spring, knowing the time for it,
not the place, when the birds landing
are an image of your black hair.