My friends are back. I do not call them such
with certainty: they do not welcome me,
or speak, even, anticipate my touch,
or think about me in their absent weeks.
Yet still, religiously, they do arrive--
their green suitcases stationed at my feet--
some nodding, all determined to survive
whatever weather they and I shall meet.
No matter how impassive they may be
I walk about and greet each one by name:
Hepatica, Bloodroot, Anemone . . .
Each year they look surprisingly the same.
They teach, though silent, nothing can transcend
the reassurance of a steadfast friend.
