BPR 45 | 2018
They say with birth begins our disappearance—
pollen to snow one morning to the next.
We took our vows one cloudy spring—the moon
slung low, dull as pollen, I remember, or was it
snow? A son arrived by fall; our daughter born late
spring—overnight, it seemed, the potted violets
drowned in snow. The sun, now bright as winter, sets fat
and low. The children laugh—I lift them
to the swings. Your air is everywhere
they breathe. What’s to regret?—and yet, and yet—