How many years have I
to wait for spring’s deep green,
the damp and dew, tender cotyledons
fresh as nested bird beaks open
drinking sun before they rise
in waves upon a breeze—
and flowers, like bright paint spilled
upon them. Ubiquitous Fiddleneck,
molten brass between the oak trees,
white skiffs of popcorn flowers,
splashes of red wine mallow,
the purple haze of lupine
and wild onion to rise like steam
on the horizons, colonies of poppies
in pockets out of reach to burn
like wildfire blind the eye
at a distance. The pale and delicate
families of Pretty Faces pose
for photographs, petals and stamen
of pink and purple mountain garland
twist in ecstasy before they fade.
Younger, I yearned for everlasting
spring, something almost heavenly—
yet nothing without the dry.
drycrikjournal 