It happens, at times,
That the route becomes beautiful
The incline gentle and the landscape rich
And on the heavy air the smell of growing things

We think the secret hidden in the land
Or month or year
Or traced upon the chart by which we go,
But do not tinker so with subtleties

You brush the secret with your hand,
As the arm swings, striding.

Gone, you’ll know how much more real her absence is
With sound of her that’s missing now in every sound
With walk of her that’s missing now in every passer-by

Who speaks incessantly
Speaks of how the buds unfold
Of how these days the twigs are fat
Of how all things begin to bloom

How every god-damned thing begins to bloom.