I found you

sitting on the porch, a glass

of wine in your right hand.

Your fingers formed

a fist around the stem

of the glass before you lifted it

in my direction, saying

without words, You’re late.

I could tell

from your hands

you had been digging,

pulling away

the unwanted. The bleeding hearts

looked clean and uncluttered;

their ruddy blossoms

swept the railing of the porch,

scoffing, it seemed,

at the dandelions that lay

next to them, lifeless.

For a moment, I felt sorry

I had not been there

to pull them gently from the earth,

to pull us together

into the afternoon.

Watching the sun

dip behind the rim

of your glass, I knew

there would be lilacs

waiting in my room, spilling

over the edge of a vase,

permeating the room

with their heavy scent.