Swallows dart through open window holes,
in a hurry to make their summer nests.
Eager grass sprouts among broken rocks,
fallen bits of mortar turning slowly back to sand.
A tomb remains, a name inscribed in stone,
honoring love lost a thousand years ago.
We mouth the words, marvel at three tenacious snails,
clinging to wet grass spears—
just beginning to shake in rising wind,
black clouds mobbing to drench us yet again.
We pull our jackets close around our chests,
and journey on.