I always think of them in spring
though they died on the sill of winter.
I sprang from them, was formed by them
in the shelter they built of gardens and painted quiet.
I think of them when the flowers start to open
and the leaves,
when the breeze is brisk but the sky is haphazard blue.
I think of them beneath this sky,
so far away from where they called home,
but the sky is the same everywhere,
and the blackbird’s song.