When we can touch, I will invite you on the porch to sit
next to me. The swing now empty, has shadows from before.

Days, I fill it with birdsong.  There are many birds whose voice 
I never noticed until now.  Some birds have raucous voices.

An especially brave wren gently taps the glass. Our feeder is empty. 
We cannot take the risk. When we can touch, I will summon you early,

ask you to stomp on the porch, and make me greet the hummingbirds. 
My father, now gone, used to try and catch them going off to business,

to their Blue-plate special flowers.  If we waste the day,
the peepers will join us with their tedious love songs.  I will

make us pots of tea.  I hope I will not take this for granted. Mornings
are short, remembering a long time.  If you cannot be with me, I will mourn you.

Forgive me ahead of time, but I will notice for you, I will try to
make all this matter. If you can be with me, forgive me, but the tea will cool

and we will squander hours. The peepers and birds will go silent.  I will listen
for you.  The music of your voice will replace the need for all the rest.