Common Brodiaea, February 13, 2016
Crayons in a child’s hands,
spring is eager to scribble color
upon a greening page,
blue skies without the gray
curlicue cloud-loads of rain—
or like an old woman wise
with too many pots on the fire,
hurried in aromatic steams
to feed us all at once
before summer takes over
our lives. Like cattle pausing
at the gate after trailing flakes
of hay, we are suspicious,
we are afraid supper’s over
before spring has been served
by our idle consideration
that swims in awe of a miracle
we crave the time to digest.
