Spring came in spite of me this year. Back here
Where runoff thunders in its streambed channel,
Winter’s grip is gone for good: the snow
In sullen patches yields to muddy ground.
Just look around—your garden is a mess:
Such straggly stalks, disheveled wantonness,
All crying for your touch. I want to hear
Your voice above the rushing water—nothing grand,
Just plain desultory discourse like we had
So often over cups of Chinese tea.
The trees float in a ghost of early greenery.

Beside the temporary runoff stream,
Little droplets sparkle in the grass.
They break the prism of the springtime sun. At night
Your laughter lulls them from the dreaming past.
And some will seep into the silent earth,
And some will seek their matrix in the sea,
And some will rise to weep with little winds
And gift your garden with an unattended birth.