I walked for hours and thought
of you as though I were speaking to you,
and with each lunge forward on the path,
I felt the oaks and sunlight move to become
you. How absent I have been since this scarlet
scarf swept through me and changed
the feel of my hips, the way they rise
up into my tongue like fear or desire or the taste
of rust.As I walked, I carried the memory of your lips
in a blue balloon above the ground with its twigs
and periwinkles. Sure, springtime is enough
when I am in love. But otherwise green is
a paltry thing, subject to dismissal like the flies
blowing in the garden behind the fender
of my aunt's old junk car. Longing places spring
somewhere between ripening and loss.
If you could see the blue of this sky,
you would wonder why you've stayed away
so long and why the sticks of our bodies
resist and attract in the current of the brook.
Departure means nothing to the spine, but the water
flowing through saddens as the white tufts
of milkweed go vanishing into the shade.
Save some quiet for me. I have so much to say
to you when I return, so much to listen.

-- Joel Long