I walk most days before dinner now
that the air is finally calm and clear,
and each time the horizon admits more
of the visible world. The windowsills
are lined with potted herbs. Fleets of rental
toilets are converging on the park, where
blue squills bloom like dye in water. Welcome
to the party, an ache in my head I could
crawl up into, abetted by spring rot.
Curious provisional sprouts betray
the dreaded taproot, but I’ll clear the yard
for pole beans and baby beets, keen
as the Sun-Maid girl, O Spring, if you
promise me more light and good clean blood.
This appeared in the March 2017 issue.