During the first spring
after your passing,
I looked out our bedroom
window at the orange tree.
As it blanketed
our bed with the odor
of its blooms,
I recalled the times we
used to lie in this bed
on the weekend
in the afternoon.
I remembered
how you liked the
smell of the tree’s
blossoms,
and how you liked
the way the petals
looked as the buds
opened and exposed
their hearts to the bees.
When we were in this
bed last April, the odor
of the orange blossoms
covered us like dew,
and I said,
“Listen,
a cricket
has found his way into
our room.
He sings to his lover,
who cannot find him.”
Now,
I am that cricket,
and I sing to my lover,
who has died.
I sing about my arms:
they long to hold her.
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