in bookstores or bars or
the lyrics of some unheard song,
collisions as inevitable as spring.
This time, you have developed new habits,
squinting, laughing a little quieter,
you are less earnest.
And all the color has been drained
by winter from the trees outside--
the grasses, the gleamless river water,
this negligent sun.
Perhaps we will not ever have
spring, that anticipation of familiar
buds to edge out and flower on all the same branches.
I used to think we always would, or
hoped, amid these chanced
seasoned meetings of the heart, and
that seed we don't wish for, but have.
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