The First
Signs
And forsythia tumbles
over the fence
wild with yellow --
When I was seven a wasp
landed on my lip
drawn by the sweetness
of my mother's red lipstick.
-- while purple flagstones
split with grass.
The same day a child next door
squeezed six new kittens dead.
That's when I knew--
there are two shades of still.
Demeter Calls The Florist
I sit by the window and wait
for Persephone's footfall
on dry leaves.
Blue glass uncorked
on the windowsill breathes --
no longer drowning
in Riesling -- naked
it colors gray light.
I will bring hyacinth inside
place it in the east light
force its honeycomb bloom.
"No, not asphodel,
I prefer a touch of color.
Blue poppies will do."
