I’ll see you in spring, they always say, and then don’t.
They have gone down the lane and out into the sweet air
in search of a thicker magic. They tell you they are one
of the eighteen species of birds who have invented their own
language
that you will never learn how to learn. You wait at the window
in a smocked dress trying to paint lilies without crumpling.
The gingerbread goes stale and the candied eyes crack.
