For Laurens and his family...

Come when the wisteria blooms,

when the afternoon rises, stretches and lays down again

like a contented dog in the sun,

stirring only to change position once more

or scratch behind an ear.

We will drink lemonade in tall glasses,

colored pink with the first strawberries;

nothing sounds more like May than

ice-cubes tintabulating

in a cut glass pitcher.

Come when the wisteria blooms

to laugh and talk, to sit together

lolling back on the porch swing that creaks

not only with the weight of our voices

but also the weighty secrets of those

who were once and are no more.

There are treasures in this garden:

wrapped promises of butterflies;

shimmering coin of spawn in the pond

from whence will come the frog princelings;

the cache of jays, those winged corsairs

who rule above the rest.

Come when the wisteria blooms,

when dusk falls late like a downy feather

onto warm velvet batwings toward the cooling earth

and the violet perfume of waiting May

will usher in the moon.