Do you ever wonder about those blooms?
What soil held them?
What darkness preceded their light?
The Plum Tree
You’ll walk blindly
beneath her boughs one hundred—no, one thousand—times
before she’ll finally let go. Her fatal fruit
pelting the patio, splitting,
spilling red juice, dark and slick.
It stains the tips of your fingers
and turns the ground beneath your feet
treacherous as spring ice.
Tears and dust, Wyoming
Spring performs her miracle
Night falls in a riot of color