For Claire, fourteen

The old orchard was decadent,
long deserted by its founders,
but flowering,
and little wild bees filled
every blossom.

The grass, high for early spring,
and spring soft and green,
hid fallen fences and

from a bare
root cellar, collapsed on one side,
skittered a swallow
who had homesteaded there.

All but the crude stone
foundations of the buildings were gone,
the lumber burned or recut
to fit city tastes,
and the red bricks
ornamenting modern rooms.

I would have missed
the signs of life, unearthing
only the frayed fabric
of bygone families,
except for you. You
led me around the place
and showed me blossoms,
not decay,
and my heart sang
for the life in you.

1984-05-24