Some blue flowers from our yard —
probably weeds — in a paper
cone made from an old envelope
you’ve hung on my studio door
bring back to me suddenly
the glory I’ve left outside
on this first day of May.
With them returns the promise
we made to each other
so many years ago,
still fresh and fragrant —
a kind of miracle —
discovered again 
growing here
among the weeds 
of my heart.