Twelve days overdue, I walk

with you to hold on, to forget.

Every bush bears the sudden eye,

the once over, then over again with patience.

All spring I've watched

these fields become new meadows,

although we say they want water.

Now the asters open early and the flies

have been no bother. Where we stop on the path

we foresee dry panicles of oats

burnt brown by June,

altogether gone by August.

Decadence has its own high style.

Between clumps of burdock and bluets

we find mayapples,

frail as debutantes,

each blossom borne in the crotch

of two lobed leaves, protective palms

swung over the heads of flowers, whose petals

hang in swags of cells cinched stiff

at the stalk. Skin to skin,

my fingers curl to their touch.

I kneel too deep to the ground and

reach for you to help me up. Near as we are

there is the distance of one to come

between us. In your pull

and my push up I think I see her,

two weeks late and swathed

in her own shucked flesh.

Just May, and already turning to dust.