Sneaky Mid-Day Poetry

Wellington, Spring 2008

Come spring

vines, waking push

through from under

pink fingernails,

crescent mooned.

Moist loamy dirt

lies scattered on

the kitchen table,

tumbling down white

pillows each morning.

Seeds fall from pursed lips,

inconveniently

mid-rebuke.

Fuscia flowers bud

from ears, muting

the sound of all

other than the humming

of bumble bees flying

through open bedroom

windows.

All inhabitants here

walk under the weight

of a seasonal infestation

until the coming of

the Equinox brings

wind from the North,

blowing new foliage

back out to the

hillsides and

away.