Spring prompts lists as I drive:
swaths of forsythia
wind in the greening willow
of quince, of tulip tree,
of creekwater the color neither of stone nor sky.
of matter:
the pith of peach
the stark of forests dark
without the dogwood tree
the daffodils broken riotous free from
a dooryard—the farmwife long dead
the farmhouse fallen away—
to bloom on the hillside
in the shape of a cross.
begging:
to be rewritten
with verbs, drama, kindred
to be shredded, cast as confetti
to the funnel cloud
In lists, I limp
after the image of my Creator,
now and ever, the best that I can do.
The thunder subsides,
and I pass through a shower
of petals.
