It must be that I make the dirge
in the wind up or else exaggerate,
or that these trees, sudden fruiting,
just as quick to drop their labors,
know something about patience I do not.
A patch of white clover
at the center of the field and children
racing in opposite directions.
Not who, but how will I love again
now that I’ve loved you—
not when, but why, and how, how.