Empty Nest
Summer slipped away on swallow wings,
and graying mornings breathe their
deep regards; clouds, shaped
like fluffy thistle down,
steadily sail eastward.
In my flower garden, weaving
between generations of blue hydrangeas,
roses raise their heads from
in between glossy leaves.
Dry now is the concrete bird bath,
overgrown with morning glory vines
that entangle the abandoned nest;
where once, last spring, I discovered
half a dozen freckled eggs.
Carefully, I clip a tea rose,
then make my rounds, in silence,
along the path of stepping stones.
Now the landscape seems to smile
as dormant memories
awake with every following flower
that I touch and cut;
and from wherever you may be,
I imagine a wistful breeze returning,
carrying a belated kiss.
