SPRING MORNING
It is without a word that you
follow me outside
like a lumbering shadow.
We reach the sidewalk, our steps matching.
Wind tangles in my hair as we pass
apartment doorways and windows.
It is when we see the shadows
of two people making love
through an illuminated curtain
that we realize I have been out of touch.
We stop under a tree that reminds us
of a cherry tree, the pink blossoms, and
your breath falls down my cheeks, my neck,
warm against the still-crisp spring air.
Then we are warmer, the touch of lips.
We say nothing, the fog of breath
accumulating, and finally we walk on,
the crunch of tree seeds under our feet.