by Betsy Martin
In the restroom at Mount Auburn Cemetery,
by a stained-glass window ajar,
hangs a sign,
“Watch your valuables: A thief’s hand
reached in and snatched a lady’s purse.”
March trees shimmer through binoculars
in their gold-sequined garb
of nubile spring growth
and winter’s leathery leftovers,
as we climb a hill in search of warblers,
brief, dazzling spurts of song and color
among the still, gray rows
of granite homes
whose residents no longer search or sing.
Above us, wind midwifes blue-black clouds,
We perch on a stone,
pressed together for warmth.
You sip steaming tea from a thermos,
your beard still auburn,
but flecked with white,
your profile handsome,
but pink and fragile against the granite.
Another birder passes by,
blithely scanning the branches.