You hold my hand as we walk through Kew Gardens
(it is morning, this is London) and we laugh at how
it’s pronounced like the letter Q and I think
that things are not as phonetic as they seem.

It is morning (and London)
and you are wearing your new shoes
and I am wearing my new coat
(we bought these things in hopes they would last),

and as we walk, we read the benches.

Mary Hunt
Set free to enjoy the
bluebells forever

I think about how people choose their place,
how they make homes of swans to feed and paths lined with daffodils

and it occurs to me that my place—
my place is wherever
your here is.

We are young (and this is London)
(good morning) and I am thinking of tomorrow and
tomorrow and (I’m sorry)

and the daffodils and benches
(I’d like our initials and an ampersand
or nothing at all).