Blindly, in the spring grove, another hand in mine
like my own–
It's the walking boulevard, flowered trees snow their petals on the stone path
to nowhere, to where the land is bit
at the beginning of water.
Shade or it's night–the thought of rain and that same friend
missing, her shape in heaven, cast.
Cloud-brand, air-daughter, I would not wager my life upon it
or that sense we trace the sky with, disappear.
MORE WORK BY YVETTE THOMAS