The sky is coming back to me.
I dead-headed the garden’s white begonias
and all but one has come back.
Today I looked for the perfect love poem
like an empty flour canister
hands as large as heat and wood
many branches of a green tree
like a mountain I love to climb.
What else can a lover do?
“Our bed burns with roses, ending an age of ice.”
Come back to me like a well lit room
after too many nights in a field.
I’ll lay you down gently as an ear-ring
found in the grocery store parking lot.
Come back like a swollen door
that won’t close
no matter how hard the enemy kicks it.