I love the sudden sproutings of nieces and nephews - re-seen after months,
eyes deeper with questions and idiosyncrasies.
I love coming home.
I love this late March rain that pounds and pools in rippling, unstill puddles,
worms uncoil in earth made wet,
and seed casements rupture from root and stem.
I love this love of dirt,
some strange inkling that I might yet be a gardener.
I love the purring of cats,
their ludicrous headbutts,
the way their passions run to tip of tail and twitch of ear.
I love the kindness of my sons, which just might be the most important thing.
I love the charm that Monica exerts on people that she meets,
because I glimpse what made me love so irrevocably.