The flowering dogwood, its roots
encased in concrete, sends skyward
its shoots; each new branch striving
for drops of rain and flecks of sun.
And I am reminded of every
little death between us; of all the
sentences not begun—the stones
and skips and sidewalks left unrun.
You leave a thought midair;
I turn to chase its vapor but you
and it are gone. Unable to prepare
my words, I can only offer echo.
Each little death is there in wait;
yet every moment I begin anew.
I am usure of its fate; I must—
at least, I swear I must—continue.
Campbell Square brings blossomed
peaks once a year; we do not grieve the
blush as it fades from wood cheeks.
We simply cherish its expected hue.
And each little death I sustain with
you as we start and stop our words,
our fingers, is followed by a resurrection;
a love that remains, an ache that lingers.