That spring I felt
the green buds open
on skeletal trees.
Near a winding path of ash
as the river grew ripe
in the slanting sun,
thoughts became places.
We watched the
Sunday-best children,
impaled on shining
communion medals,
smile at a camera`s
jagged edge.
The sky turned to dying lilac.
And I remember
watching you walk away in
a heaviness of thunder
and the first drops falling
like winter-tipped arrows.