Last night we tucked in to crow-black clouds as winter wept a final, failed snow

Zeus aimed bright spears of fire at our trumpeting daffodils
they sounded on through thunder
heads raised toward the searing heavens
a call and response of changing seasons

As we slept
the pale plum trees of late March
unfurled their copious garlands of pink curls
winnowing through the winds
loose ribbons on dark watery air

blossoms sticking tight in the icy rain
precious and potent
as fumbling love on a night-chilled beach

I woke, searching in vain
for the singe of campfire on cool sheets
sand under fingernails

Early in the morning
as I walked the yard
fog was salving the charred spaces

rolling through spruce that color this mountainside
washing each green needle straight into spring
leaving them to dry in the ripening sun

while immigrant birds
caught up in some unending debate
traded treetops and tried to crack open the shiny bud of summer