Milkweed
Five miles north of the Sunday Farmers’ Market, there is a rock
I used to sit on when the world spun fast,
overlooking the lake, hidden by tall trees,
fifty feet off the trail. You’ll know you’re close when
you see the red oak I carved
our names into almost five years ago.
The sky was warm and orange that day.
We ran down the trail as butterfly milkweed danced
around our feet and our laughing made it grow
into us – we were beautiful with greenness.
We kissed underneath the red oak
and whittled a promise into its trunk.
I read you my favorite poem there,
Richard Wilbur’s “The Beautiful Changes,”
while we sat there and realized that we were
the beautiful, the changing.
Today I returned to my place on the rock.
I saw your name on the way and my throat swelled up.
The late spring brought with it the milkweed
and me to look at our new reflections in the lake.
