I am getting father and farther behind. Oh well, at least I am trying. Here goes.
Petals fall like children
sleepily from the redbud trees-
The next breath will be Summer,
a gasp past sultry,
wet with storms that never cool,
funnels of tears that split the sky.
Rain sizzles sidewalks, puddles on asphalt.
Rainbows in oil stains glisten like gems,
their color trapped in the depth of black,
so fragile it shatters with a footfall.
The bursting-forth is soon over,
the tender one-time blooms,
replaced by raucous zinnias
and dazzling displays of weeds
that lift their defiant heads to feast
on heat and hail alike.
Bend grass into baskets
and bring me bouquets of clover,
whose roots like fisted fingers
hold their ground long after
Spring's breath fails.