Nearly May.
The desert spring's
beginning, I note
signs that weren't there
a week ago
limp leaves
so green they're
nearly clear
and insects,
fanning wings
on grainy stone
or filling whole oaks
with humming.
Cactus buds
between the spines
blush purple,
and in places
unfurl golden flame
I am reminded
then, that even
spiky, well-protected things
must now and then
despite their nature
open themselves
to the sky.
