With Winter's Long Drag Behind Us
Our mouths begin to blossom,
and we speak with words long dormant.
We speak of red sparks of cardinals
and of the paper-white blooms on plum trees.
We speak of jaybirds, of wrens, of finches.
We speak of robins that are nesting
on the porch and of their blue
clutch of eggs that will follow.
Most evenings, we stroll the backyard,
and I call out the flowers by name—
wild aster, white violet, and pink, spring beauty.
Some nights, when I know
she's sleeping, I lean to whisper in her ear—
red yarrow, blue bonnet, bright bee balm.