Two sons are gone.
The end of winter, and the almond blooms
near the back fence. The plum, slower,
unfolds under a streaked sky. The words become,
like prayer, a kind of nonsense
which becomes the thought of our lives.
In middle age we came
to the nine years war, the stars raged
in our horoscopes and the land
turned inwards biting for its heart.
Now in February the pussy willow
furs in the chill wind. In March
the sudden peach, cherry, lilac, in summer
the drumming gourd, corn, grape, and later still
the ghostly milkweed and the last laugh.