Inching into exile, her mind

has lost its hold.  It takes

all evening to name monkshood

or pepperwort.  No words,

either, for the bank swallows

pushing against the broken

edges of water.  Spring

has come too early.  It wasn't

like this before—the way

she looks for me even when

I'm here, her promise never

to leave me.  A sun-struck crocus

studies her lips for its color,

but white is gone.  The clouds

have given up their places.

The sky's one with the wind

now.  One touch and the whole

tree comes apart.  On the surface

the apple blossoms are silky

and the sky traces her body, wears

the sun down to my underwater eyes.