It Was Here

It was here. Right here
beside the brook and the old rosebush.
A late spring this year, the roses are still pale,
almost like your cheek
the first morning beyond death.
But it's coming,
only the light, only the fragrance, only the pleasure
won't be coming.
But it was here,
it was an evening with a moon,
the brook trickling,
like now. Take my hand,
put your arm there.
And we'll set out
together in the summer night,
silently, toward
what isn't.