In Late May,
Stephen Gardner

wind dances these leaves,
            green ice
            slightly arctic
                        cold enough
for both of us
            to want heavy
at last needing
            the same comfort,
quilt big enough
            for two.

But even now, I canít believe
            Iíve lived all these years
                        and only seen limbs move, 
            never the leaves,
                        a million green birds
            glittering in place

and then still, deathís first kiss,
            followed by the rush of release,
                        we call it wind, we call it
            home--and then
still, again. We call it

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