Canyons cut like wrinkles on outdoor hands,
each hiding worlds that overflow with life
adapting, feeding, breeding, pollinating seed 
and egg in spring, like elongated cities
steaming where water ran. On the shady
cutbank, Purple Chinese Houses civilize
loose, steep soil left by the D-6 Cat, a dozen
years ago to grade a way up a north slope. Deluxe
accommodations, white and purple crowns shade 
one another, competing for the business of bugs.
Pink petals of Mustang Clover stop and draw me
with varied accents towards dark centers, sentries
posted, five yellow pedestals puffed-full 
of pollen – the open face of each goddess sprung
from a medusa head. The Brodiaea twines back
upon itself in space, defies the gravity of its mistakes –
this old, well-worn flesh breathes with originality,
wild with creativity, with no end of days in sight.
drycrikjournal 
John, you are absolutely on a roll. Spring has gone to your head and sprung from your pen to sustain our delight and keep us looking and thinking and hoping. Thank you for this luxuriant season of poems and pictures.
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