Early morning this plague year, we walk
the path that circles Andorra Meadow
on the edge of the city, full in its summer bloom
of this flower and the next – some we have names for:
lamb’s ear, phlox, blackberries beginning
hard and green their journey to dark purple-sweet
sugar. How we found each other late in our journeys,
soft, too, and sweet: we cannot stop speaking
our astonishment. But look, love, we’ve turned
our aging bodies one toward the other,
grinning, joining our praise songs to the trill
of the wren, the high call of the towhee,
the mewl of catbird. Each shade of green
glints in your painter’s eye – grasses, blossoms,
brambles close at hand; then shrubs,
a copse of trees; and finally the pines, this little ring
of beauty we find ourselves within.
Oh year of kissing you. Wanton year of delight.
In this terrible extraordinary universe –
how many more glistening mornings –