The Woods in May Are This Still

Currant leaves unfurl, delicate, grasshopper green. Pinkish blossoms,
muted trumpet notes, that make me stop and weep.

Through morning mist, impossible, my father walks toward me.
Twenty years ago he died from ALS.

Near the end, his index fingertip was all he had to talk with,
pressing little buttons to signal Yes and No. Fix my pillow.

All my life, I hoped he’d find the courage, even if it had to be a button,
to say to me I love you.

A flock of kinglets flits into the branches of the currant, hopping
branch to branch, hanging upside-down. For one brief moment,

shorter than the time it takes to press a button,
they stay completely still and listen to the trumpet notes.