Vermilion mouths, a thousand
crocus poking through
leaves, grass lifting heavy seedheads,
sun squinting into windowed rivers.
Winter—an empty mug, a closet of naked
hangers. We labored in frozen
velocity, sloshed up endless crater
hours, landscape of our hollows,
cracked gourd compost pit.
Cherry blossoms hold
pink to the light—a sign
to let our holy out. Sky’s renewed
migration, returning flocks
settle on trees, honking thirsty
my heart spinning.