The end of winter, when the longer rains
contract and staccato eruptions cosmetize air
with tulip sounds and grassy dashes. Lacquered sun
melts my fixed stare, the frost tough to bite through.
Blessed stumble, gregarious gate, my dream of the woman
who knows how to mend the world. Her mango-scented
glance unravels my Teutonic structure. I had thought
I eschewed submission but her irresistible delivery
of scarlet underclothes behooves me to dance.
Adjacent to Earth’s be-ribboned roots I wait four
hours, heart to ground, for my next choreography.
They say, in our times, the bats die off, bees fall ill,
I hear the death cry of their drones while polar ice
caps soften. Am I wrong to idle in delirious love of
irises’ purple? Or does it constitute hope
to shore against my species’ juggernaut?
By Grace Marie Grafton
Grace Marie Grafton is the author of six collections of poetry, which can be reviewed on Amazon’s site. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, with a redwood tree outside her kitchen door and a native live oak next to her deck. Nearby are red squirrels, raccoons, salamanders, and (never seen) mountain lions. Other of her nature poems can be found in Canary (online), Peacock Journal (online), Third Wednesday, Poecology and The Common Ground Review. Her book, Whimsy, Reticence and Laud: unruly sonnets, is rooted in her love of nature. She has taught for decades with CA Poets in the Schools, frequently taking her grade school students outdoors for their poetry lessons.
Photo of purple crocus by Gelia