The lilacs are in bloom
and the lake that was ice
is water green as creme
de menthe. Flowering Scotch broom

tugs at the eye, Yellow
Brick Road-style. I hold
your hand; your hands, the wheel. . . .
Are we saying hello,

good-bye, something in between?
The car is a Pontiac
station wagon; it's parked
in a very pastoral scene,

and as the sun enflames
the flowers, and the sky
above the arboretum
flares, then dims, making the names

of the trees difficult
to read, I study your face
in profile, now thinking
what dear Ruth had said, exult-

ing in her conscience, to
Naomi: Wherever

you go, I will come along.
Here amid the alien heather
and words from an old song,
I say her words, to you.