Why are we tempted (and why do I ally
myself with “we” when I can only mean
myself with certainty … while certainty
above all, is a thing to doubt)—why
is it we look for signs in the expression
of a season’s early or late or thwarted heralds,
where the natural, bridled with human longing,
becomes not un- but preternatural: a world

of difference. The cavalcade of crab apples
that shrouds the road to the vet’s with its rash
pink (a shade approaching the skin’s embarrassment),
will bear for us, in perpetuity.
as if it were the blooms’ perfume, the weight
of our first retriever on the day we put him down.
The trees, the arborists, the neighbors we pass—none
acknowledge this, none can mock or console.

Let’s say, the week before a relative dies,
when every telephone call could be the news,
the gravel drive is dotted with stone-still skippers,