From the edge of the pine woods wild forsythia beams,
its yellow so bright you can almost hear it sing. I smile
as the glad of it burrows into my mind, fetching up
the memory of a warm spring day when we rode down
country roads just for the joy of it, and you said how
you loved those bright yellow flowers that peppered
the roadside and yards. They’re forsythia, I told you,
and you laughed at the name, repeating it over and over.
I can still see your face, so carefree, as you sang it,
“Forsythia! Forsythia!” whenever one came into view.
And I send you my love, and imagine you’re beside me
as I walk, my heart full of gold, beneath the pines.