Saturday, March 20, 2010


When May comes,
and the daffodils have faded
into the blush of the cottage roses
that I adore almost as much as you,
and the weathered barn,
surrounded by newly dressed maples,
whispers in the wind
its dreams of the summer sun,
I'll still be there;
among the ancient calls of crows
and the occasional twit of a cardinal,
waiting in the cool of long grasses
for you to see
that I've been there
all along.