Spring is a brave knot of daffodils
and one flowering cherry in a parking lot

where I watch patients make their way
across the pavement in a cold splatter

of rain, gait careful as a cup too full,
caregiver gentle at the elbow.

But you, my son, are like vapor
when you appear at the glass doors,

black hood drawn tight, and I fear
you might dissipate in the sharp gusts

that dance pink petals over the roof
to scatter into a darkening sky.

Instead you grant a small smile,
sink into the seat, tilt back your head,

close your eyes. I want so much
to ask how you are, where you’ve been,

but I turn the key, steer toward home, silent
while you restore yourself to solid matter.

And isn’t this love, too?
This waiting. This quiet waiting.