I return again
to try
      to draw your branches --
a sentence
destined to repeat itself,
never to gain understanding.

Sometimes a line, or
one missing, or a trumpet's
sigh far off, stray,
scratches a surface,
opens the heart.

The harbor breeze
dangles the torn screen,
teases me
out of this old room,
works me out of myself.

When days lengthen,
the last bit of winter
lets go --
a mourning dove
turning towards home.

Birches sweep past. 
We press them into our minds
hoping
their memory will become
                  as endless as the sea.

Roll in, roll out, 
change masks, roll in again --
infinite faces --
each time I fail to guess
who you will be next