Watching

You watch me cross the field,
toil through stubbled hay
to find a crease where the pond
hides behind unbloomed forsythia.

The rock wedge is uncomfortable
except for its fine-grained solitude
and I am now, like you, watching
blue-gray clouds announce nothing.

We sit and rearrange the dampness
that’s been soaking between us;
your closeness thrills me
and wears away the chill of morning.

Red-wing blackbirds exhale spring,
the far-away roads hum and whine.
You envelope my waiting;
our silence becomes a whisper.

And those thousand interruptions,
my mist of well-meant moments,
are sirened off in exile
by your patient awareness.