Once more it is April with the first light sifting
     through the young leaves heavy with dew making the colors
remember who they are the new pink of the cinnamon tree
     the gilded lichens of the bamboo the shadowed bronze
of the kamani and the blue day opening
     as the sunlight descends through it all like the return
of a spirit touching without touch and unable
     to believe it is here and here again and awake
reaching out in silence into the cool breath
     of the garden just risen from darkness and days of rain
it is only a moment the birds fly through it calling
     to each other and are gone with their few notes and the flash
of their flight that had vanished before we ever knew it
     we watch without touching any of it and we
can tell ourselves only that this is April this is the morning
     this never happened before and we both remember it