At 51, quietly slipping from bed,

I followed the sun, knowing paths

are fragile for those who turn around,

song of thinnest bones caged in blue.

I do not listen, mindful of the ground,

a heart that beats with mine, a language b

ending to your soft stride, hips inhaling

slants of light, dancing as one who knows

a milk pail’s pulse against woven wire.

Do not cry out, my love, your body

steals through licorice ferns, whispering—

The blackberry blossoms

are late this year.