Beatitudes

I woke early to hear the remnants of rain
after an all-night storm. Gray morning, diluted

light coming through the shades. A bird from
the willow chirped, each note

another beatitude. I took my time getting
up, an unfinished dream still warm

in my head: it was two autumns ago
and you were there with a half-smirk,

scarved neck, framed in sunlight.
All the leaves scuttled to your feet

and far off somewhere, a woman’s voice
wisped like a westward wind against my ear.

But this morning I find no love where
once it glared like a thief who overturned

all I own and still wanted more.
My bed was empty and it was spring,

another season without you, had you
been here at all.