walk with me

Soon we’ll walk by rows of cedars, white

with frost next to the ice-skimmed pond.  I’ll reach

for your hand as cold junipers droop

with heavy snow.  A lone cardinal will sit

on a birch, against the pale blue sky.

It will be morning, when shadows are long but snow

is bright against your hazel eyes, and as

we inhale frozen air, our breath-filled clouds

will dissipate and then

form again. 

In June, we’ll become botanists,

sketching wild blue phlox, johnsongrass,

geraniums, and garlic mustard within

our notebook pages.  We’ll clutter bedroom walls

with water-colored illustrations and notes

scribbled about colors pigments can’t

quite capture.  We’ll record the smallest parts—

trichomes, cold taproots, filaments,

and yellow anthers full of pollen grains.
Even the broken petals will be drawn.