The moment we turn the corner,

a cold front hits,

a carpet of chilly air

unrolled at our feet.

I pull my cardigan tightly

around my chest, hold it closed.

You hook your heavy arm

around my neck, pull me closer.

We walk on, quicker now.

You admire the shape

of Maggie’s cherry blossoms;

I, the golden tulips in her side yard.

The scent of lilac follows us home.

Skinned my knee slipping

on wet cobblestones.

No one was watching.

Went to grab an apple

from the kitchen

and slid on rain-soaked

cherry blossom petals

blanketing the path.

Bruised my hip

and twisted my wrist.

Tore a new hole in my old Levi’s.

Looked up from the ground

as a cardinal flew

to the dogwood tree.

If only you’d arrived a moment before,

you would have warned me about

the slippery stones.

I carry you like a talisman

in my heart pocket

so you don’t overlook

the coppery moon

blanketing the lake

with her fiery spotlight

or the very split second

a December rain

freezes into snow

like a magic trick.

Sometimes I take you out

and forget you

in the dish next to the sink.

Other times I buckle at

the thought of you

and put you back inside

so you don’t miss the short rainbow

peeking through the clouds

outside the airplane window

or the arousing smell of dewy white pine

when I walk upstate post-rain.