Yields a crocus and the pound
Of nails going into wood
The crocus is a flower of the snow
The desert can only imagine
The way nails imagine the wood
Of real rafters holding up
An ever realer cloudless sky
With shopping nearby
No snow no crocus
While the desert fills
With purple and gold
Until it’s not hard to cross
Nails pounded into the ground
With crocuses blooming on the wood
No comments:
Post a Comment