To greet you
in our reunion
I'd been saving
a moment
over a slow cup of tea,
but I gave it
to the cooling evening
before last.

The footsteps I'd take
when I saw you
at the fence, kissing
the ground with my toes,
not wanting to disturb
the moment, I gave
to my neighbors, a couple
of skittish ducks.

I gave the plastic bag
stretched full of root vegetables
found under the snow
I knew you would like
to an acquaintance
just before she became
a friend.

I had a certain half-smile
I'd hoped to show you
but the other morning
when nothing was urgent
I gave it freely
to a sunbeam
sprawled across my bed
beside me.

Come soon.
My love for you is becoming
so hard to tell
from daily care
for my own heart
and my cast-iron skillet
and the ducks
and the dock plant
and the bright moments
arriving and gone
and the scrap wood
stacked so patiently
between manifestations.

Everywhere I see anew
your loveliness, I give away
something carried, and now
when you arrive
—do return, beloved, in time—
my hands will be
so empty.