Early Spring

Now in the Spring the geese gather 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.

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