It has been so wet stones glaze in moss; 
everything blooms coldly. 

I expect you. I thought one night it was you 
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs, 

you in a shiver of light, but each time 
leaves in wind revealed themselves, 

the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak. 
We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove. 

In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires 
over which young men and women leapt. 

June efforts quietly. 
I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall 

so even if spring continues to disappoint 
we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain. 

I have new gloves and a new hoe. 
I practice eulogies. He was a hawk 

with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs 
of a salamander crossing the old pony post road. 

Yours is the name the leaves chatter 
at the edge of the unrabbited woods.