We visit the springs in the Bluegrass state.
The weeks dwindle til I move out east
to live with you. We greet eastern Columbine
and walk onto the paths while the trees
bathe us. All I know is I know you now.
The cadence of our voices leaves
me gratefully misplaced.
After the first switchback, my hand in yours,
the bark and light and vines inspire
my thought-before-speech confession: This
reminds me of Kentucky.
Nothing’s been quite here before.
Only the turtles who surface for air.
You stay the week and before you leave
I’ve seen cicada for the first time. I begin
to propagate two jade plants. Lucky
rescues– because I didn’t know before that I
was meant to prune them.