We know how it goes
after a storm, sometimes
wet fog clings for days,
weighs on the mind
when we can’t see out –
can’t feel the sun move
within us. The first light
white will blind us,
before the colors come
reaching for blue, blue
sky and cumulus sailing
into shapes we recognize.
And so it goes from dark 
tempests and torrents,
before the lupine leafs
from bare sticks, before
its purple plumes wave
into the buzzing, warm
pulse that will fade
again with the sun – yet
no season, the same.
drycrikjournal 