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."