Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Back from the Walk: A Poem

Sharp green spears of cress

And mauve-tinged henbit

Pouncing forth from

Winter’s ironclad mouth

Make me want to stop, to bend, to graze:

Atavistic urge is nowhere near the mark,

When every cell in every bone configures

To spring’s wild come-hither guile.

The graphic of cress sprouting from a computer keyboard is from the Flickr stream of wetwebwork, as archived at Wikimedia Commons.

No comments: