by Marianne Betterly
As spring flashes its magenta blooms,
a petal storm floating
over daffodils and tulips,
covering them in a sea of pink,
I want to scream.
Finches cluster and chirp
in nearby redwoods
swoop like pterodactyls;
insects buzz in the living room,
fly around my head.
I feel itchy,
perhaps from lying in the grass,
hope it isn’t ticks.
The sun is brighter, hotter --
each day more light
is crowding out
the cozy blackness of night.
I’m sleepy,
don’t want to get up.
On the street glimpses of navels,
naked toes and shoulders
make me shiver, sneeze
in the wall to wall sea of smiles
love is floating like hay fever,
I don’t want to catch it
but would rather go back to bed,
cover my head and wake up
when the cold San Francisco summer
drains the pastels of spring
down storm gutters
until all that is left
is gray mist rising,
spreading across the city,
pushing thoughts of spring
off the Golden Gate bridge
with the bass bellow
of a foghorn.
