For the leaves that I couldn't find a word

For the leaves that I couldn't find a word
for, for the weather that never seemed hotter
than that one June, for the mysterious letter
she sent without an address. Simple chords

seem simple no longer, the singing birds
build nests in the trees before it gets wetter
in the spring. The colored glass is shattered
on the garage floor and light reflects toward

her tired eyes. I just can't seem to make sense
of the movement of the wind, the awful science
of prayer or the architectures that condense

as clouds in the sky. What else might influence
me but her? Her task unfolds in the tense
expansion and contraction of this sentence.