that they’re moving to Tennessee.
My sister in Knoxville has told them of forsythia
in February, of robins that punctuate the lawn

by Groundhog Day. After forty years of Lake Effect,
my parents are weary of snow.
Imagining how my father’s garden

will surrender to volunteers of odds and ends,
inscrutable vegetables surprised at their
own appearance,
I give them my blessing, thinking–as self intrudes–

yes, move while you can, and on your own.
But after they’re gone, what stranger will answer
my knock
at that door? What look will come to her face

when a bearded, absurdly tall man,
who seems close to tears, walks in and
tries to explain why tomatoes and marigolds