Weeks you stoop in a cape that hangs
in rigid roughness galling eyes.
At your sides empty shells,
prospects tangled at your feet.
Palms pressing we face the wall
that parts to our intent, reveals
bursts of zinnias beside willows.
We pause at the bench.
The cape drops as he approaches —
our daylight.
Rising we reach for his hands,
fold into him
and he dispels
your strand of tears.