Is this all that remains/ of desire’s candle that burned, its two seared/ ends meeting in the middle?

Here you are asking if something is left behind
from those days and nights of heat and splendor.
The nest under the springhouse eave, the errands
to bring the birdling feed to gaping hungry beaks,
is this all that remains? What will bring back
the glory of the flower? But it has never left you,
not when you still cup your ears to the murmurs
of ebbtides, the trill of children running after kites
blown wayward in the hills, the quick flush
on your face when you recall the warmth
of nights we lay on our backs counting the stars
knowing we could not but recounted them
from inconstant starts and lost count anyway.

—Albert B. Casuga
05-18-11