drycrikjournal

‘On the make,’ my mother’d say
of springtime sojourns, the lone tom
between gobbles of rafters a strut,

the fan and drag as damp earth warms
to steam the green to flower skiffs of color,
to dress the oaks in tender iridescence

while finches softly fall aflitter, giddy
with the fun of it stirred within the air
we breathe, inhale into our flesh.

Like quail paired, couples nested
near the creek in the old days, empty
cars parked along this quiet road

like Do Not Disturb signs, lovers drawn
by April’s pounding drum to taste the wild
just beyond the sagging barbed wire.

Upon redbud bloom, the earth
awakens, windblown pollen
stirs the flesh anew, colored

petals dress the drab decay
of summer’s dehydration
brightly, bring bees to work

and birds to play
house, raise young families
and sing—it is this time.