Out the back door window
I see part of Mary’s mural
lit up, a soft midday spotlight
on words she painted a couple
of years ago:

I awoke with your voice and because…
…small green fans on slender…
…gold and fluttered to the ground…
…their little lives…

My words twine amid green
stems swooping up to gold fans
leading to poppies and anthuriums,
gold and red under a domed sun,
a bit of dangling purple wisteria—

plants that flourish in warm times,
recalled by a tender bit of winter light
beaming in from our nearest star,
making a momentary appearance,
as do so many of our beloveds,
as if to say,

Turn around; look up and blink.
I’m never far away, here,
just behind the rain.