See? The rose-peach quince is in bloom,
another confirmation of spring’s constancy,
the reappearance of an old friend
who blossoms her hello to me each and every year
without fail. It’s been over a quarter century now,
and she was already grown and in full flower when I met her.
I raise my lemon water in a toast.
“To you, fine old friend,” I say aloud,
and she nods in the gentle May breeze,
her coral skirts flared, her yellow stamens
raised to the sun. Then we both stand
silently for a moment, breathing in
each other’s joy, satisfied and glad.