I wouldn’t recognize you today,
all blossomy and damp,
light as a gauzy sundress.
You casually crush green
beneath bare, stained toes,
snip herbs for dinner,
bouquet hosta or lilies.
You’ve forgotten me,
hoarding wan daylight,
wiping puddles of salted snow-melt,
You wouldn’t remember how to use fleece and wool
to staunch the cold
that bleeds through everything.
You smell of sunscreen and clover
as you step into twilight,
your yard aglow,
dewy blades vibrating full
of summer night sound.
(It’s difficult to think of you
without judging your thoughtless naiveté,
scarcely believing autumn was gathering
and winter would fall down hard.)
But now that spring buds in fits and starts,
I find I am a helpless creature,
soft, white, shrunken,
with layer upon layer of winter armor.
So I recall you now gladly
for what you can teach —
how I might once again
turn my face grateful to the sun.