Ancient

Ancient

I think I have weeded
and turned
every inch.

But year after year
new memories flower and fruit

Seed and re-seed
without warning
or permission.

Left behind, they miss
the spade and the worm.

I don’t know how it is,
but somehow
it's as if we get to keep
the source
of one betrayal.

Until that one Spring morning
when the shifts and filterings,
the half-turned yearning and
the rain conspire for a place.

As if from nowhere
I find your face.