eleven years

how emerald
the leaves are, as if they
never left.

crisp new gems
so quickly hung on branches,
filling in the grey

along the canvas
out your window.
soon you won't be able

to see the other side
of the stream.
but you can get there

stepping over stones
that winter pushed in place.
maybe you'll find the time

to carve your name, with hers
and date upon a tree,
beneath the one you did

that spring eleven years ago
after she passed away.