Spring, perhaps

It is March here again

among the pines,

the azaleas have bloomed

pink, white, that deep, bloody red

the dogwoods, my mother’s favorite tree,

are holding their white crosses against the wind

I am dumbstruck each year

by the declaration of their blood-stained petals

the birds are joining their voices

in warning of a false spring

for easter has not yet arrived

and the pecan trees are still at rest

the forecast says we will see 26 degrees on Saturday

But for now, the warm sun feels good on the skin

It calls green things to life

a cruel trick, perhaps


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