When color comes back to the world,
leaving gets near. By the roadside, auburn
and cream cows chew spangled green.
Creeks steam. A lone bull’s horns gore
my heart. Judas trees in flower blur.
Scintillant mist unveils an omen
of mountains. Rows of trees divide
each pasture, branches spread wide,
because they never needed to compete
for light. Please, fog, roll back over
my life. Shrink, leaves, to your old
sites inside secret wood. May days be short
and expeditions brief. No spring. No grief.