I will say tree, not pine tree.
I will say flower, not forsythia.
I will see birds, many birds,
flying in four directions.
Then rock and cloud will be
lost. Spring will be lost. And, most terribly,
your name will be lost.
I will revel in a world no longer particular.
A world made vague,
as if by fog. But not fog.
Vaguely aware, I will wander at will.
I will wade deeper
into wide water.
You’ll see me, there, out by the horizon,
an old gray thing,
who finally knows
gray is the most beautiful color.