It’s autumn. Rain clouds vanish.
She peers at me through window glass.
From my side, I watch her leaf bouquet
detach, flutter, drift in disarray
toward drying fecund earth.
Through the wind we both capture
signals of distress. But I’m the older
wiser woman so I say
Wait, my dear. One January noon
a flower will appear, a bolt of sun,
bright yellow, perfect, perfumed
like your bed. New leaves thrust
upward toward the cry of passing crows
will pierce your astonished heart.
And I, behind the glass? How does it
feel to be older than a tree I ask
my pierced astonished heart.