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You blew in on the wind of an early spring

 with a hint of new life in your step.
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In a seamless motion we punctuated
an eight-year-old sentence.
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And I realized your name must have been
written within me before I shattered
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because I could feel
your embers linger in the remnants.
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But many the hues of respect and admiration
you painted on her face
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awakened a memory of the missing
portrait he drew of me.
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I closed my eyes to prevent the tear,
and you were gone.
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Naturally, I returned to the basement
to scrub stains out of dirty clothes.Â
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Frost bent the green blade.
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