I’ll describe early spring,

because it’s easier

than describing fear:

waking at one a.m.

in a terrible dream.

Where are you?

Why don’t you answer?

It’s forty degrees,

and the wind is rattling

the darkness and the chimes.

Everything is touched:

the willow, the aspen, and the roses

just beginning to break

into the tiniest buds.

Yet, still bare, still silent,

still waving their branches,

like I see you, waving your arms.