Spring squared to the small

power, backyard bucolic pink,
think I’ll slip into something
elemental, become new-shoot
and unassuming, like the pond’s
water shamrocks or this cling
of sporophytes by the porch.
Amaryllis stare like red giraffes,
listen to a bird’s wick-wick,
caddis fly’s plink, my courier
share of the common flicker
as the last sickle of sun fades
from the gold-lipped honey
lid.  Human metamorphosis
is slow so I drink more tea,
watch the vernal mix sink
to half-lit flux, the present
still in luck, living off
what’s left of earth’s
long green past while it can.

About the author

Sally Molini has seen parts of Asia, been south of the border, and got lost briefly in the San Gorgonio forest, but has never…

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