TASTE OF SPRING

Christmas storms colored the canyon early,

purple brodiaea, blue lupine, white flakes of snow

upon the green as wildfires of poppies spread

slope to slope, mid-February, forty-five days

warm without rain. I used to think I knew

what it took to paint these hills with flowers,

like the warm spring rains in ’78

after the drought.  Living here 100 years,

Nora Montgomery claimed she’d never seen

so many poppies in this canyon, solid gold—

nor I since. Each a fantasy, no two springs

the same, we live in the 10-day forecast

for rain, for grass, for cattle. The Old

Farmer’s Almanac predicts a backwards

spring, growing cooler through April—

we never know, and like the cattle

in grazing circles, we plod through time,

always eager for another taste of spring.