Migration

I step into the darkness
of not knowing
in the driving rain
I stumble upon
a migration
of salamanders
returning to the waters.

Do you love me now?
I ask.
Will you love me
even after
I am gone?

The monarchs
return from Michoacan
to comfort the migrants
tumbling into vans
in the Blue Ridge dawn.

You love me now.
You say.
You will love me
even after
I am gone.

We are all immigrants
of habit
rain drives us in
the sun calls us out.

Prayer flags flap
in the cold wind
forsythia bursts
open the garden
and rocks
bubble up
from the ground.

I love you now
I will love you
even after
you are gone.