It is nothing more
than that I miss
the correspondence.
It is a special thing,
to be reduced to tears.
It is May,
up with the sun in my eye,
a routine begun but to pause –
-Chopin, Ballade No. 1-
Out back beyond the fence
there is still frost on the grass.
The thin glass between us.
Only the bees still seek communion.
One by one I release them.
Be grateful.
You must be grateful.
Be grateful that you still can feel.
looking for roots 