Perfect for early bloomers,
Fiddleneck, White-veined Mallow,
London Rockets pale the pasture.
Rain in the ground, thick Filaree
overreaches like loose-fringed
lettuce for more—more of the same.
Grass ahead of the cattle, it’s war—
every seed battling for real estate,
real dirt damp, for sun and rain,
green hills puddled with spilt paint.
Everything perfect on it’s own, yet
I fret with the brittle momentum
of lean, dry years—months of dust
and hay—a hard pace that interferes
with becoming forgiving as this ground
exploding in all the colors of rain.
Desperately, I reach through
early morning black for light.