Blame the lilacs for filling the night air with soft whisperings. Heavy-headed clusters nod in agreement. I welcome the intoxication. Each year I wait for the hedgerow to blossom. For a bloom somehow gauged by the depths of snowy New England winters. Double whites and French lavender—there's a color for every desire. I become a detainee among the young shoots already crowded around the honey wreck of a shrub in bloom. Gentle rain only heightens the potency of plushy petals—an undertow in sweet acquaintances.

you poke
at green wood hissing
in the fireplace
one of many conversations
that takes us past midnight

despite
our yearly rendezvous
it didn't stop us
from growing older
from growing apart