Late Afternoon at the Arboretum
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.
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.
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