From the tree behind your song I can tell
it’s spring again. Leaves, lime-green,
sprout from a body of twigs. An abundance of living
you can’t get away from. And in your song
I can hear the sorrow that makes you sing it.
Each year when blossom casts its stars
around this bough, how many constellations
do you see looking back in may time?
Just one? Of course, there is only ever one
you see up there on this anniversary—
someone who lived like blossom,
just long enough to be named.