The quiet I keep on the thin path
to the beach is the hardest.

The sound
of you talking below and the waves unrolling
against the shore of broken stones
is an oracle, my future now 
of loving you.

I am caught beneath
the tilt of maples and cry of difference
between ten thousand things: leaf
and stone, rail and wave,
me you.

I feel old
in this descent; naming blossoms
along the trail: hyacinth, lilac
and roses.

I feel a table has 
been righted in my heart, and I
am ready now to place a vase
at its center with a single flower.